Subplot
by any1
Summary: Complete - Chp. 26 up! For anyone who likes Snape, misfiring potions, Sirius, rock music, Ginny, stone circles, Neville, flying vehicles, Ron, belligerent chess figures, Lupin, evil plots etc. Proper summary inside. Beta-read by Hibiscus!!! Please R & R!!
1. Snape

1 – Snape 

The staff room of Hogwarts had a large window to the west, which permitted the tiny stars on the collar of Professor Dumbledore's robe and the glittering beads around Professor Trelawney's neck to catch the sinking summer sun. It was the pre-term staff meeting preceding the end of the holidays, all teachers who had been away on holiday – or maybe on secret business – had returned for it. Professor Snape, who hardly ever left the school, had been gone for almost a month, trying to find out who among Lord Voldemort's 'moderate' supporters of the past could maybe be persuaded to work against him this time. 

He wouldn't have dared to show his face among actual Death Eaters, the inner circle of the evil wizard: Just like their master, they probably knew he had betrayed them in the past and were eager to kill him. But of course, Voldemort had more supporters than just his narrow inner circle, ordinary people who might not mind going over the Dark side again, but with whom there was a slight chance they could be persuaded to change sides this time. Snape's reputation was still an ambivalent one – many people still thought him a Death Eater who had betrayed his master out of mere cowardice. He had tried to gain the confidence of a few of these wizard families. Snape's mission had not been without dangers: While some wizards let on they were still undecided with whom to side this time, some others had been decidedly eager to lay their hands on him. After the second narrow escape, Dumbledore had sent him an owl telling him to lay off his activities, as they had become too risky. Whatever trust his former associates had had in him was used up. 

The meeting was the usual humdrum of a boring staff discussion - organisational matters, affairs of minor importance. After the dangers that lay behind him Snape found attending in patience even more difficult than usual. He wanted to discuss some aspects of his trip with Dumbledore, maybe even with a circle of trustworthy witches and wizards who would fight the rise of Voldemort with him. Surely the teachers of Hogwarts had more important things to discuss than the introduction of a new edition of spell books or the existence of a new building close to the forbidden forest, rumoured to be erected for the use of whatever fool Dumbledore had hired to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts this time. Snape raised his water-filled goblet to sip a bit, bored to the extent of trying to find something to do with his restless hands.

"She's due to arrive tomorrow", the old headmaster responded to Professor Flitwick's question. "Professor Varlerta is a musician; she is doing research on sound magic which may at times be a bit dangerous. She specifically requested a sound proof building removed from the proximity of the castle so she can continue her research here on the grounds." Great, just what we need at a time when the world is falling apart, Snape thought and let the water spin in his goblet – a little sing-along!He might have let a sneer escape his usually controlled face, he realised when Dumbledore fixed him with an ice-blue stare. 

 "Some of you will remember her: She attended Hogwarts as a student many years ago. I'm sure Professor McGonagall will remember teaching her. Professor Snape may remember her from his own student days."

Snape almost dropped his goblet. With trembling fingers he set it back on the table, hoping no one had noticed. He barely listened to Professor McGonagall's good-natured comment that she couldn't recall the name. Sneaking another glance at Dumbledore, he caught his eye once more. This could mean only one thing – everything else would be far too much of a coincidence. Snape kept his eyes downcast hoping the heat he felt rising in his face would not show. The rest of the meeting seemed to be a blur of sound to him; his mind was on other things. Varlerta. Valerie. Yes, he remembered her indeed. How remarkable that Dumbledore should also remember. They had talked about her on two occasions only, and those had taken place many years ago:

He had been a fifth year student on that first occasion, and going to Dumbledore was his ultimately last resort. The head of his house, ancient Professor Malgam, had told him that he couldn't help him, that he didn't know any more than Snape himself where Valerie had disappeared to. Yes, apparently she had left school right in the middle of a term, and for good. No, he had no idea why or to go where. Yes, it was odd indeed, and as the head of her house he verily disapproved of such practices. The old Potions Master had worn a look of pity on his face, whether for the student who had disappeared or for the one who stood before him, Snape never knew. Professor Malgam was his favourite teacher, and he knew he was liked in return if he kept up the good work and fulfilled the expectations set in him. "It's a pity, I know," the Potions Master had said glumly. "I knew you were helping her with her potions and found her greatly improved since then."

Snape had told himself he shouldn't bother. He had sent a school owl on the uncertain mission of finding Valerie nevertheless, but the owl had returned without delivering his short note. 

The thought of consulting the school's headmaster with his trivial request had been outrageous, but still he had found himself asking Dumbledore about Valerie's whereabouts when he met him alone in the hallway one day. The old, honourable wizard had given Snape a very odd look. "No, I'm afraid her schooling is out of my hands. I do not know whether we will ever hear from her again. I'm sorry."

The second occasion Snape thought of had not been entirely different, come to think of it. Then, to the young man of nineteen, the incident of his fifth year had been remote history; now, to the man of thirty-six the two incidents seemed to be not only connected by their common theme but also because they belonged to that remote region of time, his youth. At both times he had been young and had felt a strange lump of confusion in his stomach because that bloody witch, Valerie, had disappeared into thin air, something that seemed almost a character trait of hers. On the second occasion Dumbledore had again been Snape's only hope of having his questions answered, but instead of this, had warned him. Didn't he know who she was? Yes, of course, by now everybody knew, didn't they? To say Dumbledore frowned would not have been accurate; there was a serious thunderstorm going on in his brows: Snape had _trusted her in spite of it? One word of from her and the Death Eaters would prepare for him the painful death of the traitor he was. Snape had just shrugged: It made no difference. Not trusting Valerie had simply never occurred to him. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, in the beginning, he hadn't known who she was. Nobody knew, with the possible exception of Dumbledore. His year-mates at Slytherin, fascinated with Dark Magic and even as third-years all but bent on joining the Dark Side, might have treated her a bit different, had they known. As it was, they called her Stinker, pelted her with dung beetles or similar and forced her to play her lute anywhere but the Slytherin dungeon. Whenever the unattractive, silent girl had appeared carrying her cumbersome load of an instrument, they told her to make sure not a sound escaped from the battered, useless old thing she called a family heirloom. Snape had joined their jeering. He certainly wasn't the most popular student in the school; in the gang of his housemates he was only suffered if he accepted that the least place with them was his due. When one of the leaders told him to do something for them, well, he usually did it. Being occasionally bullied was better than being alone all the time. If you didn't have a friend in the house of Slytherin, you could get entangled in the obscure hierarchy that was tradition among the students; they would make your life a misery. Stinker didn't have a friend, of course, not even among the girls. She wasn't wanted in the dungeon. Luckily, this wasn't Snape's problem.

Then one day Professor Malgam called several of his favourite and most gifted students into his office. Students respected him because he was strict but fair. He didn't appreciate students messing around, he said, but he believed in second chances. If there was one thing he hated, he told his chosen few, it was when a Slytherin failed to excel in their traditional craft, the noble art of potion making. Sadly there were a few first and second year students in his house who appeared to be hopeless. This had to be amended. His eyes rested on his favourite students, all of them Slytherins. He trusted them to put things right. Each of them was to pair off with one of the more or less hopeless cases and to teach them the basics, at the very least, so that they were adequately prepared begin understanding their regular potion lessons again. 

He read off the list of who he had assigned to who. Tough luck as it was, he had entrusted Snape with the most hopeless of his cases, namely Stinker, the girl who attended her Potions lessons without showing even a shred of cooperation or discipline. It was the only time in his life Snape had felt angry with his favourite teacher.

With exception of the occasional jeering, Snape had never spoken to the girl before. Now as she stood before him, stocky and unsmiling, barely female looking, with a mop of black hair that fell into her eyes, he thought the only good point about her was that he noticed no particular smell around her whatsoever. She didn't need that to be repulsive; her ungratefulness absolutely sufficed. **__**

 "Oh, trying to turn me into a model student, _Professor Good Samaritan Snape?" she mocked him when he offered her his help. "Well, a thousand thanks, but no thanks, I can manage alone just fine!" She turned to leave, but he took hold of her arm. "Professor Malgam told me to get your potion skills into shape, and I'm _going_ to get them into shape, believe me!"_

 "Oh, I see, you are under higher orders! How could I so gravely misjudge your intentions! Well, why don't you just take your orders and stuff them into Malgam's cauldron?" She jerked her arm, but he strengthened his grip. 

"Get your dirty hands off me!" She looked really angry now. A part of him wanted to comply rather badly; it was not the kind of assignment he was looking forward to. A second part of him hated to disappoint his favourite teacher. He had never failed him before and was sure the old wizard would hold him responsible for her accomplishments and failures from now on. A third part, by far the strongest, started to dominate his thinking: He was taking her behaviour personally. Even though he was more than unwilling, he had offered his help in a tone as neutral as he could manage, but all he got for that was her scorn. If he gave in now and let her get away with it, he admitted defeat, something which did not agree with him at all. He gave her a cold stare. "I tell you what, Miss High and Mighty, you'd better be in the library tomorrow at seven and cooperate or _I'll jinx your lute." This threat had come to him from out of nowhere and sounded a little ridiculous even to him when he uttered it, but it seemed to do the job. Her eyes narrowed. "Leave my lute alone, or you'll regret it. I'll come alright, but it better be worth it." With these words she jerked her arm out of his grip for good and strode off. He stared after her, realizing his task was promising to become even less rewarding than he had anticipated. ****___

**_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_**

Teaching Valerie twice a week for an hour was a sore trial indeed in the beginning. Snape soon realised that she had lousy grades coming up not only in Potions, but also in History of Magic and Herbology. There was nothing wrong with her brain, he had to concede, as she had a good memory, was quick to understand everything he said and apparently mastered everything that caught her interest. However, this is where the problem lay: She was a reluctant student, not only with her teachers but also with him. She seemed to hate most things in the whole school, or if her own words were to be believed the whole castle and magic in general. Magic, she said, was not interesting and Hogwarts had nothing to offer her; she wanted to be a musician anyway and found most magic 'idiotic wand-waving.' For everything and everyone she had a sarcastic remark, always pointing out the bad side of things and neglecting the good side. It may have been here that their friendship started to germinate; they had the same sense of humour. Even though Snape constantly reprimanded her for her 'attitude problem,' he often had to fight to keep his mouth from grinning at her curt remarks. Sometimes even a joke of his own escaped his control, which Valerie usually topped with a reply of even blacker humour. Over the time the two of them became the verbal equivalent of sulphuric acid. Valerie respected nobody and nothing, with the possible exception of her lute teacher. 

That was another thing: She wandered off all the time. After a few months of teaching her Tuesdays and Thursdays, Snape declared they would have to change to Wednesdays and Fridays as he wanted to join the duelling club which met three nights a week. Valerie's reply was that it was all the same to her except for Friday, on which she was busy. "Busy?" he had snorted, knowing that she had never taken part in any kind of evening activity except for wandering off on her own. Valerie shrugged and offered no explanation, but did not show up in the library on the following Friday either. At breakfast the next morning, he told her off in no uncertain terms; The finals were coming up in four weeks, and as far as Professor Malgam's expectations went, he would be held accountable for the marks of both of them. Once again, Valerie shrugged; she had _told_ him she'd be busy. The next Friday he waited for her in the Common Room. She passed him in her usual fashion – the monstrous lute shouldered, looking neither left nor right, dodging anyone who tried to tease or hinder her. He got up and followed her up into the castle's Entrance Hall and then out into the rain.

Neither of them wore cloaks; he certainly hadn't expected her to go outside. She never looked over her shoulder even once and so she did not notice that he was only twenty steps behind her. While the downpour had already drenched his robes and his hair so that they stuck to his body, he noticed that she and her lute apparently stayed dry, as if shielded by some invisible roof. Valerie was heading for the Forbidden Forest with an air as if no such rule applied to her. Snape broke into a trot and caught up with her just beneath the first trees. When he gripped her shoulder, she turned to face him.

"What in the world do you think you are doing here? In case you forgot, you happen to have a little studying appointment with me!" 

"I _told you I'm busy. By the way, you're all wet, Professor Strict." As usual, she did not call him by his first name, but by her mock translation of it. Under strands of black hair, her eyes gave him the most unconcerned look. _

"How very perceptive of you! Well, you are not supposed to be busy, neither when I teach you nor in this forest, which is not called 'Forbidden Forest' all that accidentally, by the way." Snape was fuming; a concentrated drip falling from the edge of her magic umbrella into the back of his collar did little to lift his mood. It seemed impossible to shame this girl – bad marks, scolding in case of rule breaking, nothing seemed to impress her. She just grabbed his sleeve and pulled him behind a tree and under her invisible rain protection, which was quite an impressive piece of magic, he had to concede. She saw his appreciating glance upwards. "Can't let my lute get wet, can I? By the way, I've got to go, my teacher is waiting for me." "Right. Professor Malgam is waiting for a secret tête-à-tête with you the forest." She gave him a look of utter impatience. "My _lute teacher, you idiot! Well, I better take you with me or you'll tattle." Once more pulling his sleeve, she led him deeper into the forest._

Snape had never been one for rule breaking.  If a forest was out of bounds, it meant he didn't go there. Now, however, something like curiosity must have grabbed him; he followed without resistance. The forest was dark and chilly; he shivered in his wet cloak as he hurried after her. He saw Valerie wave to the occasional goblin or distant unicorn, heard her hiss casually at a large snake hanging from a tree and shout greetings to two centaurs who galloped by. Then they came to a clearing. The weather had changed; wet green leaves glistened in the summer sun, and small white flowers shone in the grass. On the remote edge of the clearing, stood a large female centaur wearing a brown leather vest over the human part of her body, her wrinkled face framed by two grey braids that hung far below her waist. Slung over her right shoulder hung a crossbow, a quiver with arrows and a truly huge lute. Valerie stopped before her, then indicated a little bow with her head. "Lady Lido, I'm sorry I am late."

The centaur accepted her apology with a curt nod, then glanced over Valerie's shoulder at Snape. "And brought company."

Snape swallowed hard; for a number of reasons he was not at all certain that coming with her had been a good idea. Valerie indicated first the centaur and then him with her hand by way of introduction. "This is Verus. And this is Lido, Lady of the lute, my teacher."

He had put up with enough mockery concerning his name, Snape thought. "Name's _Severus!" he snarled at her. "No, it's not," she responded with her usual look of unconcern. She then indicated for him to sit on a moss-covered, strangely dry tree-trunk and conjured up a tiny but warming fire in front of him in a matter of seconds. The air was already warming back up in the sunshine of early summer, but as his robes were soaked, he was grateful. That settled she started her lesson with the old centaur._

Snape found watching the two rather impressive. Not only had he never seen a real centaur up close before, but also the degree of familiarity between the two of them amazed him. Of course, Valerie did not treat her lute teacher with her usual air of insolence at all, but seemed to greatly revere her. The centaur criticized the girl's lute playing rather harshly, but instead of talking back Valerie only nodded, obviously bent on improving her skills. For the first time Snape heard her play as she had always been banned from the Slytherin dungeons whenever she tried to play a single note on her instrument. He started to wonder why they banned her; it was nice to hear her play and might have been an asset in the Common Room, at least on certain occasions. After the better part of an hour, the centaur looked at the early evening sun and declared the lesson finished. Valerie thanked her with another little bow, nodded to Snape, who by now was dry again, and both of them left.

"See why I can't study with you on Fridays? The old lady would rip my head of if I tried to change anything about our arrangement." They were half ways through the forest. Snape was still looking around in wonder, too awed to argue. "Do you come here often?"

"To practice. They are not nice over there." She waved her hand in the vague direction of the castle. 

He nodded. "But it's forbidden." She shrugged. "It shouldn't be. The Forest is a great place. _Loads to learn here. Sometimes I think they want to keep us stupid over there." _

He would have liked to lecture her on safety matters, but somehow it seemed pointless. Not only would she have laughed at him; she did not _seem_ unsafe in this forest, but rather looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. When they had reached the forest's edge, she halted. 

"If you want to get into the forest, here's the best place to enter. It can be overlooked from practically no window in the castle, the Quidditch pitch nor the game keeper's hut." He nodded mutely; not at all sure he would ever make use of this piece of information. The narrow path in the grass ahead of them forked into two directions. Valerie pointed at the left one. "Glad you can't tattle. Let's go back separate ways so we do not attract any attention. See you later, Verus." She started off down the right one. 

"Don't call me Verus," he protested.

"Yes, I will," she responded over her shoulder as she walked away from him. And she did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The friendship of Valerie and Verus had been a rather strange one. Never Valerie sat down with him at a meal or approached him when others were present. Whether it was because she was afraid he would rebuke her or whether she was just condescending to protect his shaky position with his year mates, he never knew. If the two of them were seen sitting together in the Slytherin Common Room they were usually busy with schoolwork. Professor Malgam had commented on the favourable progress Snape's student had made; he had told both to keep up the good work. Valerie's marks improved; she did not fail a single subject, although Potion-Making was an art she never quite mastered. For the main part of the day, both students kept to their own ways. Valerie remained the model of a social misfit, only occasionally hanging out with a few girls from her year. Snape kept to his Slytherin gang, glad he had advanced in their rows a bit as a fourth year because gang leader Lucius Malfoy and his best friend Walden Macnair now had younger students to boss around. When the gang decided to pick on Stinker, Snape came up with something else for them to do; he never bullied Valerie again, but did not openly defend her either. 

Their friendship was not common knowledge. They met in secret every couple of days to prowl the Forbidden Forest together. Valerie knew many creatures that lived there and often stopped for a chat with the odd centaur. She also knew which parts of the forest were dangerous to enter, hinting darkly at large spiders and worse. Often, the two of them would sit in the clearing, protected from the elements by magic. The weather shield was an easy trick he too had mastered within a short time. Snape felt oddly at peace when he sat on the tree trunk, preferably on a sunny day, and listened to her practicing her most valued possession, the Renaissance lute inlaid with intricate rose designs of bone and mother-of-pearl. She insisted it was a family heirloom and had been played by her wizard and witch ancestors for several hundred years. "I've never heard of your family name before," Snape had protested, implying that there was no such thing as an 'old' wizarding family he hadn't heard of. Valerie had only answered vaguely that it had come to her from her mother's ancestors but did not elaborate.

Rule breaking seemed to be Valerie's second nature, especially if it concerned going wherever she pleased. Every now and then Snape tried to change her, but his lectures availed to nothing. The girl just answered with her usual shrug and then pointed out that they had never been caught. He had quickly learned to walk noiselessly and melt into the shadows of doorways and niches just like her, so the two of them did not need to be invisible to roam the castle and grounds unnoticed. For the three spy dogs the caretaker kept, Valerie and Snape had come up with a neat little Illusion curse. It made the animals see, hear and smell them as a pack of huge, ferocious, drooling dogs – dogs with bloody muzzles that growled fiercely at every whine of fear. The real dogs quickly learned that the best way to deal with this superior pack was to completely ignore them.

Curses. Well, this was another matter. Contrary to the Hogwarts dogma, Snape had learned and practiced quite a bit of Dark Magic at home. His mother and father had always practiced Dark Magic and were secretly supporting "You-Know-Who," as everyone had started to call the evil wizard. Of course, being underage, Snape had never practiced serious Dark Magic, had never killed or hurt another person. But there were other things he had learned to do which were forbidden at Hogwarts. Many of them had to do with controlling the will or the mind of another person without actually placing them under the Imperious curse. Some were about deceiving the senses of others, generally known as Illusions. Curses that aided thieves and the like he had never learned, as they were considered to be beneath his family's dignity. 

Talking to Valerie about these things, he found out that she, too, knew a great deal about the Dark Arts. They studied and exchanged curses, discussed which ones they considered usable and which they would rather not try. 

They liked to measure their skills against each other, as in this area none had a clear advantage over the other. Sometimes they met in the forest at midnight for a duel among friends, often after they had argued, which happened rather frequently. Later he was amazed that none of them had ever seriously hurt the other, as the things they used to hurl at each other had by no means been child's play. Remembering their time together he also wondered whether they had considered themselves on the side of good or evil: In spite of cultivating their skills of controlling and deceiving other people, they never discussed this in earnest. Maybe they had just liked to think of themselves as having hidden powers. Every now and then they actually used a forbidden spell, like the time when they magically convinced Professor Malgam that their Slytherin Common Room needed a table for playing Four-Dimensional Uncontrollable Pool, a rather dangerous game for playing indoors. Snape thought if the other Slytherin students had known the two of them were responsible for the teacher changing his mind, they might have thanked even the despised Stinker. As it was, he never saw her play with anyone. He thoroughly enjoyed the table with his friends though, until the day a second year student was hurt rather seriously by a flying ball, an event which resulted in the removal of the table from the premises.

Helping Valerie with her schoolwork was a task Snape had come to enjoy, even though he never admitted it. Always an ambitious student himself, her made sure her marks were above average and tried to teach her a minimum of respect for her teachers. Still he couldn't help laughing at the outrageous putdowns she had in store for basically everybody. Sometimes he imagined the two of them as conspirators plotting to ridicule everything that had authority and power in this castle – the teachers, the headmaster, the care-taker and of course his Slytherin gang, authorities he never failed to pay his respect to outside her company. Still, sometimes when he was with his gang, he caught himself secretly calling people by the names she had for them, for example thinking of Malfoy as Pukehead, of Macnair as Dunghead, of Crabbe as Braindead and of Goyle as Meatball.

When one Sunday afternoon in the autumn of his fifth year she failed to meet him as agreed, something that had never happened before, he went to look for her in the forest. He found her sitting on their tree-trunk in the golden-leafed clearing, crying silently. Without thinking, he sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder, worried, as he had never seen her cry before. She sobbed a bit on his shoulder, but then wiped her eyes and refused to tell him what was wrong. "Why don't we just go over to the duelling ground and run through a couple of noisy spells, Verus?" she asked. He nodded, knowing that in spite of her usual silence she loved noise and big bangs.

A chronic insomniac even then, he worried about her that night. Something inside of him told him it was wrong to leave her in her isolation, never trying to include her in the circle he spent most of his time with. In spite of her disdain for his Slytherin gang and of their contempt for her, he approached Macnair, who was the leader of their gang since Malfoy had completed his seventh year, the next day. 

"We should let her join us," he told him. "She knows loads of curses and even talks Parseltongue. She's a true Slytherin." Macnair had only laughed at him. 

"Trying to get your stinking little sweetheart to be accepted, huh? Well, don't bother. Even if she was to grant every one of us the favours she obviously bestows on you, we wouldn't want her. I'm appalled by the thought of doing it with Stinker anyway." Snape flushed with shame. How could they think such a thing? But as denials would only have made matters worse, he just turned on his heels and fled. Relief flooded through him as he realised there was no need to ever tell Valerie of this conversation.

A few days later when Snape came into the Slytherin Common Room before the crack of dawn, as often the first student to rise, something blinking on the floor caught his eyes. He stooped to pick it up and found it to be a wooden splinter the size of a Sickle, inlayed with bone and mother-of-pearl. Something icy dropped into his stomach. Finding a puddle of blood on the floor could have hardly filled him with more dread. He sat down in the corner and waited for Valerie until it was high time to get breakfast before classes started. There was nothing to worry about, he told himself, as Valerie was often late and even liked to sleep in when she was not supposed to. The whole day he tried to catch a glimpse of her anywhere. In the evening he sat there once more watching the entrance to the girls' dormitory dungeon, wishing he could go in there just the once to see whether Valerie was there or not. Well after dusk, he asked a year-mate of Valerie, a mousy-looking girl he had occasionally seen with her. "It's a mystery," the girl told him. "Her bed is stripped and her trunk is missing, even that grisly lute of hers. I have no idea why, but I'd say she's gone."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Snape stood in the bathroom of his private quarters, struggling to wash his hair, he tried to recall Valerie's face, either the one of her childhood or the one of their last, fateful meeting, but failed. The Potions Master, a man who usually considered himself rather brave, grimaced when the soapy water ran down his face. He had always hated washing his hair, maybe because it seemed to have no avail whatsoever. He dried off as well as he could, frowned at his hook-nosed reflection in the mirror, and went to his wardrobe where he spent a few minutes on selecting his best-looking, non-dress robe. 

His mood continually shifted between excitement and pessimism. So he would see her again today. So what? Had she ever thought of him in the last seventeen years? Probably not, or she would have sent an owl some day or other. Well, would she have known where to find him? Probably not, but she could have asked Dumbledore, couldn't she? Obviously the headmaster had been in touch with her, or how could he have hired her? Sourly Snape thought that he shouldn't be doing this shouldn't try to look his best, like a dressed-up monkey. Then he glanced at the grandfather clock besides the door, early morning. No need to get all upset about it, he told himself – the last time to expect her was early morning. 

Two more days and the school year would start. It was not a happy thought. Not that Snape hated teaching – he just did not like it overly much on most occasions. He loved his subject, but wished he had the privilege of teaching it only to the gifted students, or maybe to those who even had a remote interest in his noble art. When he had started teaching, there had not been much choice: He was hiding away at Hogwarts, while elsewhere his life had been in danger, so he hadn't minded doing something useful with his time. Old Professor Malgam had made him assistant for a while and then resigned his post to Snape. At first he had tried to be as fair as his mentor, strict but also generous if necessary. Confronted with inattentive, reluctant or sometimes even incompetent students, he tried to think of the girl he had taught when he was still a student: If he had proved able to get _her_ interested, it shouldn't be difficult with the assorted bunch of average nuisances he faced every day. Unfortunately it was not as easy as he had hoped. Often he looked over a class of nothing but blank faces he sometimes thought of as consisting of plaster. He had tried to be patient even with those students he actively disliked or considered plainly stupid, only to find he had no patience for them. 

Snape could not stand mayhem in his class, just as he could not stand disrespect. Both brought out the worst in him. Yet he was bent on never losing his temper, even though it was sometimes simply boiling under the smooth surface which cost him so much effort to uphold. Sarcasm and a strict regime helped him feel in control of the class. Students who were afraid of him provoked him significantly less often to the point where he wanted nothing more than to duck them headfast into their boiling cauldrons. The only problem was, almost everybody hated him. He could hear the students whisper about the defects in his character when they thought he wasn't paying attention. With the other teachers it was even worse: The verdict 'talented with potions, but horrible with people', if not to say 'failed career' seemed to float around him whenever he entered the staff room. Once he had handed in his resignation to Dumbledore, but the headmaster had asked him to reconsider for reasons of his own, so Snape had stayed. Over the years, he had become more and more stubborn – he was and would remain Potions Master. If others didn't like it, tough luck.

Sitting in the library with a stack of books and parchments, revising the lists of lengthy assignments he would give his classes in the upcoming school year; he couldn't help looking out of the window every now and then. When would she come? Had she maybe already arrived? How would he know when she came? As the day wore on, Snape grew more and more impatient, but resisted the urge to ask others whether the new teacher was already at Hogwarts.

He needn't have worried: Professor Varlerta arrived with a bang. Startled by the loud noise, he found himself running to the window to look out into the grounds. A motorcycle appeared to have landed neatly in the middle of the lawn; its occupant, dressed in black leather, was struggling with a red motorcycle helmet from which a sheet of black hair emerged. Snape could not restrain himself; he walked down to the Entrance Hall as fast as his dignity allowed. On the way, he met other teachers. The noise of the motorcycle had obviously alerted not only him to her arrival. As he walked out of the door with forced slowness, he could see a woman shaking hands with Dumbledore, and, yes, this witch was obviously an older version of the girl he used to know. 

The adult Valerie was tall and slim, with a well-defined, high-cheekboned face and straight, shiny black hair that fell almost to her hips. She had obviously taken off her jacket because of the afternoon warmth. It hung over the saddle of her black motorcycle; against it leant a heavily padded nylon bag that might be holding a smallish guitar. Valerie's clothes, tight black leather pants, heavy black boots and a black t-shirt, made Snape swallow hard. He knew that Muggle women wore trousers and tight-fitting clothes - he had even seem some scandalously revealing pictures of Muggle women some time or other. In the world he lived in, however, women wore wide flowing robes. This person now stiffly embracing Professor McGonagall, a teacher she had liked as a girl, this person looked as strange to Snape as anyone could.

Obviously Professor Varlerta had not noticed him yet. She shook hands with all the teachers, introducing herself to the ones she did not know yet, exchanging greetings of various degrees of warmth with the ones that had known her as a student. Snape kept himself in the background, a lead weight in his stomach. He wanted to be noticed and not to be noticed at the same time. Valerie approached him, her smiling face turned over her shoulder towards Professor Flitwick, who must have said something to her. Then she looked at him. Her smile faded and her eyes rounded. "Verus!" she said softly but intensely.

Here we go with history repeating itself, he thought.


	2. Harry

2- Harry 

Here they are at it again, Harry thought, looking out at the green blur of landscape passing the window of their train compartment rather than watching his friends sulk. He wished Ron would come off it. Ever since Hermione had written them a postcard from Bulgaria, Ron had been in a bad mood with her. Of course the last two weeks spent at the Burrow had by far been the best part of Harry's holidays, but Ron's constant needling had cast a bit of a shadow over the days. Harry did not mind Hermione visiting Krum; he liked the surly Bulgarian seeker. Imagining Hermione with such a grown-up thing like a boyfriend awakened his curiosity, of course. Unfortunately, Ron had done his best to keep Hermione from telling them much about her holidays.

When Hermione had met Harry and the Weasleys on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, she had seemed overjoyed to see them. Harry had felt the same, and Ginny had squeaked with delight. Ron had only greeted her curtly and had even frowned at her when Hermione and Ginny got into the same train compartment with them. 

While Harry had decided certain things would best be left alone, Ginny wanted to know all about Hermione's time with Krum. "Oh, I'll tell you later," Hermione had said. Ron gloated at the two girls. Harry stared at Ginny, trying to keep her from pressing Hermione about juicy details in front of Ron. Ginny, however, did not give up. Had Hermione met Krum's parents? Had she been able to get along without speaking Bulgarian? Had they gone sightseeing? Hermione seemed to be reluctant to talk about it, maybe discouraged by the way Ron kept demonstratively ignoring her.

"Well, it was nice. Nothing extraordinary, I dare say – " Hermione crushed the wrapper of a chocolate frog in her hand without even checking what card was in there. 

"Did he show you his school?" Harry was trying to make polite conversation. The dark look on Ron's face made him uncomfortable. Surely they weren't planning on getting into another argument before the term had even started?

"No, he wasn't allowed to, as it is hidden." Hermione looked out of the window as well, where summer-green meadows were speeding past them. "I don't think I'm too sad about that, though. Some of the stories he told me – " She shuddered. "That place would probably give me the creeps. If I had to go to Durmstrang, I reckon I'd rather stay stupid."

"That bad, is it?" Ron growled, squashing a corned-beef sandwich in his hands. 

As if to save them, Fred and George burst through the door of the compartment. Each held several black paper bags in his hands. Imprinted on the bags was a red flash of lightning over the word 'Wheezebag'. 

"Now that we are out of Mum's reach, we thought we'd equip you all with our first products. Enjoy, and feel free to demonstrate the use of these free samples to friends and foes alike," George said in the smug tone of a businessman. Fred handed each of them one of the paper bags. Harry examined his. It was rather heavy for its size and contained several bulky objects. Ginny gasped. 

"Wheezes! I can't believe you're still at it! Mum will bite your heads off."

"At least that wouldn't turn her into a canary," Fred mused.

"Or worse," George replied happily.

Harry had pried open the staples that held his bag closed. Some of the objects in there appeared to be ton-tongue-toffees while others looked dangerously unlike canary creams. There were several bags of powder in there, two of which said 'potion spoiler'. The white quill gleamed innocently in the darkness of the bag while the silvery spoon looked completely ordinary. 

"So what do these do?" He waved some of the objects in question at the entrepreneurial twins. 

"Would we tell you?" Fred replied, looking as if insulted by such a vile insinuation.

"And take away half the fun?" George shook his head as if in dismay. "I think the use of the objects in the Wheezebag are best found out by free exploration."

"Let me know the worst at once," Ginny deplored them, mischief in her eyes.

"No, we won't. See it as a chance to prove your scientific spirit," Fred advised them, the door handle in his hand. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, Hermione took out a _Daily Prophet_ that had been wrapped in with her bundle of Hogwarts school robes while Ginny was teasing Ron's owl Pigwidgeon with an overlarge owl treat. Torn between looking over Hermione's shoulder and watching the tiny owl twitter angrily at a treat that was larger than its whole beak while Harry's own snow owl Hedwig hooted away calmly, Harry's eyes were suddenly caught by an article on the second page: 

_Assault on Wizard Family in Wales Still Mystery.___

_While nationwide concern about the brutal and mysterious attack on the Kinney family mansion demands highest efforts of the magical crime investigators, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, denies the possibility of a tie-in with recent rumours of a resurrection of Dark Powers. "While we certainly have to worry about the rise of International Organised Magical Crime in Britain, there are no proofs whatsoever that You-Know-Who is back on the scene. Neither are there any indications for a connection with recent Death Eater-style riots in Yorkshire," states an official speaker for the Ministry._

_Bernhard and Tracy Kinney, both aged 27, as well as their two and three year old children, were killed when an unknown group of wizards burned their down house near Caerphilly, Wales, shortly before dawn on Monday, August 29th, as was reported by the Daily Prophet. A medical examination on the_ _bodies gives evidence that all victims were Transfixed prior to their deaths, giving their murderers time to search and clear the family mansion. Investigators are still looking for any clue to their identities but have to fight against serious Tracehiding charms. "We are at it and will nail whoever did this monstrous deed," a Magic Crime Fighter stated confidently._

_While wizard crime rates have been on a constant rise since 1947, the exceptional brutality and ruthlessness of the crime leaves the magical public in shock._

Harry tried to fight a slight feeling of nausea as he and the others were changing into their school robes. He watched Ginny feed the overlarge owl treat to Hedwig as Pigwidgeon had obviously given up. Here they were, feeling safe among their daily jumble of school business, Wheezebags and owl treats when not far away something terrible had already begun. He shook his head, feeling helpless. There was little he could do, other than trying to get through each of his days as well as he could, hoping somebody would find a way to stop Lord Voldemort.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arriving at Hogwarts as always meant a ride in large carriages that moved without any visual trace of horses and fetched students from the tiny platform of the Hogwarts Express. Harry looked around for Hagrid, the gamekeeper of Hogwarts, who traditionally took the students of the first year to school on a boat trip across the lake. He turned his head right and left as he was eager to meet his friend Hagrid but could not spot him. This was strange, as Hagrid, a half-giant who was twice as high and four times as broad as a normal man, wasn't easily overlooked. Ron and Hermione had also noticed that Hagrid was missing. "I can't see the boats, either," commented Ron.  

"The first-years seem to be going in carriages this year, too," observed Hermione. "Where could Hagrid be?"  

This worried Harry slightly. Passionate about all magical creatures that sported fangs, talons or any other dangerous trait, Hagrid had a habit of being in trouble. But as no answer to the question of Hagrid's whereabouts was at hand right then, he climbed into one of the carriages with his two friends and travelled the last bit of the journey towards their school.

"Look – they built something new there! That looks curious!" Hermione sounded excited. Harry glanced out of the carriage window, while Ron continued his examination of the Wheezebag, pretending to be not the least interested in Hermione's exclamation. On the other side of the lake stood a low building that had not been there before the holidays. It looked thick-walled and appeared to be almost windowless. Despite its pointed roof, its architecture clashed curiously with Hogwarts castle that rose against the sunlit sky at a distance. 

"It looks new!" Harry remarked, a confused frown on his face. He was just so used to the ancient castle of Hogwarts that he felt the modern-looking building with its shiny blackish-blue tiles was completely out of place here.

"Well, it _is_ new, isn't it?" was Hermione's reply. "If you ask me, I'd also say it looks gloomy." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they entered the Great Hall, Ron had still not spoken anything more than the occasional grunt. Hermione appeared not to notice, but Harry did not enjoy the situation. He felt he had a pretty good idea what was wrong with his friend, but preferred not to think about what it could be, because – well, just because. When they approached their seats at the Gryffindor table, he was therefore relieved to hear Ron making normal conversation again. 

"Hey, have a look at this year's candidate!"

At the staff table, just between Dumbledore and Snape, sat a tall witch with long black hair, a wearing a solemn expression on her pale face. She looked straight at them across the room, her glance guided by Snape's pointing finger. Harry's least favourite teacher wore an ironic grin; he inclined his head towards her and seemed to tell her something. 

"Defence Against The Dark Arts, do you reckon?" Hermione asked Ron, her eyebrows raised in some kind of a challenge. "Perhaps they figured a witch might last us a little longer. She's quite young, too, I think." 

"Not a fossil anyways." Ron sounded close to normal and slipped onto his chair. Harry felt himself relax. But apart from Ron's odd behaviour, something else was bothering him.

"Looks like she's a friend of Snape, doesn't she?" The pair at the teachers' table indeed seemed to be wrapped up in conversation. Harry frowned. "I suppose we should be glad if she doesn't last us more than a year in that case, either!" 

"There's something wrong with Snape too, don't you think so? He looks different somehow!" Hermione peered over to the teachers' table. "It's just – oh, now I've got it – can you believe it? I think he washed his _hair!" _

Harry and Ron, who were obviously less observant about the professor's hair, hadn't noticed, but now that Hermione had pointed it out, Harry could see what she meant. Snape's black hair was neatly trimmed at shoulder's length and looked decidedly less greasy than usual; on top of that, Harry's least favourite teacher was wearing crisp new robes and something that resembled a pleasant smile. 

"Chatting up the new teacher, is he?" Ron commented glumly.

"But Hagrid's still not here," mused Hermione, looking at an over-large, empty chair at the staff table.

"Wonder what he's up to now – I hope he's alright," muttered Ron. – "Hey, here come the first-years!"

The three friends watched the assembly of frightened-looking first year students brought in by Professor McGonagall, the stern-looking witch who had assembled them to be sorted into the four houses of Hogwarts. Harry saw the young students gaze at the ceiling in amazement – it had been bewitched to look like the sky outside - regard the golden plates and goblets on the table with awe, or look at the ancient, ragged Sorting Hat with apprehension. He remembered his own sorting four years ago and suddenly couldn't believe that it had been four years ago. Did time really fly this fast? It seemed like yesterday that he had stood there, not sure whether he belonged to this intimidating school of wizardry and witchcraft or not. Thinking about it, he realised that he could be counted among the older students now and that more than half his time at Hogwarts was past him. When he had started at this school, he probably had believed that fifth-year students were very old and wise, that they knew a tremendous amount of magic and were on a countdown to adulthood. So, considering the fact that he would have to take his O.W.L.s at the end of this year – was he all that wise and grown-up? He did not really think so, and all of a sudden, the thought did not appeal to him either. Before he came to Hogwarts, he had many times dreamt of being grown-up so that he would not have to bend to other people's rules anymore, could leave the Dursleys and live his own life far away from then. Right now, however, he felt a strange dread towards the time when he'd be confronted with the life of an adult wizard. What would it be like? So much had happened in these past four years, so many things that he wouldn't have believed possible and by far not all these things had been pleasurable. He shuddered at the thought of the wizard family killed in Wales, imagining what might still happen during his remaining years at Hogwarts – the terrible events of last year were already bringing about a change that certainly would not be for the better.

Loud cheering awoke him from his solemn thoughts, and he realised that he had missed the song of the Sorting Hat – he simply hadn't been listening. When Hermione turned to Ron and him and said, "This was a nice one, wasn't it?" he nodded, somehow embarrassed that he had permitted himself to be so far from the Great Hall in his thoughts. The Sorting Hat sang a different song each year prior to the Sorting Ceremony, and he felt a little stupid for not paying attention.  

When Professor McGonagall called out "Ailis, Gwenwyfar," a pale, slight girl with a pinched face approached the hat and set it onto her head with extreme caution. The hat, which fell down over her eyes and covered her head almost down to the chin, pondered for a second. "Slytherin!" it exclaimed then. The Gryffindor students at Harry's table looked upon her with a little disfavour; the Slytherin House was not only Gryffindor's declared rival in all school championships, but also the house which had turned out the most dark witches and wizards over the centuries. The Slytherins, however, clapped to welcome their new member. Somehow, their cheers sounded thin and hollow in the Great Hall. That was the moment when Harry, Ron and Hermione, or probably even most of the students in the Hall, finally noticed it: 

"Where's Malfoy?" wondered Harry, who couldn't make out his arch-rival and enemy. "Where are his thugs?" added Ron, referring to Crabbe and Goyle, Draco Malfoy's obedient followers, both big and rather stupid. "It seems a whole bunch of them are gone!" Hermione had been quick to oversee the whole situation. "Good riddance, if you ask me," was Ron's grumbled comment.

All around them, non-Slytherin students were murmuring in surprise and looking around whether this extraordinary dwindling of students concerned the other three Houses of Hogwarts, too. However, everyone else seemed to be in their place. With a surge of relief, Harry saw Cho Chang sit at the Ravenclaw table as usual. Whatever his chances were with her, it would still have come as a shock if she had been gone. But overlooking the assembly of students he realised only the Slytherins had disappeared in large numbers.

Professor McGonagall, who must certainly have noticed the murmurs of surprise around her and was also rather likely to know the cause for this, continued the Sorting Ceremony as if she hadn't noticed. Shooting stern glances through her square glasses at any student who kept on talking, she managed to regain the silence befitting the Sorting Ceremony rather quickly, however. Seamus Finnigan, who was in the fifth year now like Harry, Hermione and Ron, welcomed his little sister to the Gryffindor table with loud cheers; there was a number of new students coming into their house, but, as Harry couldn't fail to notice, again, very few students approached the diminished Slytherin table. 

"Are they dying out or what?" wondered Ron. "So it's true, and I wouldn't believe it," murmured Hermione. "What is true?" asked Harry. But before she could answer him, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat, and the Hall fell once more into silence. 

"I'd like to welcome all new students to this school," the headmaster with the flowing white hair and beard commenced. "I hope you have a wonderful time at this institution and learn a fair portion of all the things you will need to know in the difficult times we are facing." Sounds of bewilderment blended with cheers as an answer to this not entirely optimistic statement. "Please notice the Forest on the Hogwarts ground is forbidden to _all students, just as the new building behind the lake. _

"I'd also like to welcome Professor Varlerta, who will teach Defence Against the Dark Arts from this year onwards – by this I mean that I hope she will stay with us a little longer than her predecessors."

Varlerta rose, took off her pointed, black hat and bowed her head in greeting, her face expressionless but her eyes smiling. Again, the students' cheers sounded a little nervous. None of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers Harry had so far had at Hogwarts had lasted more than a year. Most students eyed the tall, thinnish witch with the pale complexion curiously, maybe wondering, like Harry, what she was like and whether she would be up to the job of teaching Defence against the Dark Arts.

"... that many of our lines are missing," Harry heard Dumbledore say and turned his attention back to the headmaster, who, he realised, must be speaking of the missing Slytherins.

"Over the holidays, quite a few parents have chosen to withdraw their children from this school and to transfer them to Durmstrang or to Beauxbatons. It saddens all of us to see your table so empty." He looked to the students sitting at the Slytherin table, some of whom were shuffling about on their chairs and looking uncomfortable. "After my speech at the end of last year, there have been numerous political discussions and disagreements. However, even if it grieves us to see our students leave us, it may be just as well that no tear of disagreement runs through this school. I stand by what I said, and I am glad you who remain – and I, who will also remain here" – loud cheers throughout the hall answered this remark – "will face what is ahead of us together.

"I'd very much have liked to start this year without all this serious talk, but I'm afraid it couldn't be helped. So - what more is there to say? If we are indeed facing dark times, this piece of advice may be even more important than ever – enjoy your feast."

Cheers, well, some cheers at least, were again audible in the hall when the golden plates and goblets on the table filled with food mysteriously, steered by the magic of the house-elves in the kitchen below. Harry, however, was not ready for food yet. "Where's Hagrid, though?" he pondered aloud, obviously not softly enough for Dumbledore to miss it even among the murmurs in the crowd. The old wizard raised his hand again, and the talk and clatter died down a bit.

"Oh – for those who have wondered – your Care of Magical Creatures teacher is still away on some important journey, but will return any day now – hopefully in time for his first lessons tomorrow." 

A few people cheered or booed through the food in their mouths, but many hadn't been listening. Harry asked Ron to pass him some platters and helped himself to many of his favourite kinds of food. All around him, students were tucking in happily. He sighed inwardly. It was good to be at Hogwarts again, which was like a home to him – but there was a lot yet to think about.

He knew exactly what Dumbledore had meant when he had referred to his speech last year. The old headmaster had publicly announced that Lord Voldemort, the Darkest wizard there had ever been, had regained a body and was likely to rise to power again – a truly terrible threat to all the Hogwarts students knew and loved, if not for the whole world. Harry himself had witnessed this horrifying event. He tried not to think about it, but even this effort left him slightly nauseous. He still had occasional nightmares about the encounter with Lord Voldemort and his followers, but many wizards did not believed the thing they had been dreading had indeed come to pass. The Ministry of Magic tried to hush over the event.  Dumbledore, however had believed in everything Harry had told him, and had chosen to tell this truth to the whole school, although by doing so he had made himself even more enemies in the wizarding world than he already had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In spite of all dark thoughts, Harry was glad to wake in his four-poster bed at Hogwarts once more, to have breakfast with everyone and to drift along in the jumbled flow of students who had not yet settled back into the routine completely. "What's our first lesson?" he asked as he walked along one of the countless corridors with some Gryffindor fifth years, sure that at least Hermione would already know the new timetable by heart. 

"We start with the new one straight away," she replied. "I'm curious to see her approach to Defence Against the Dark Arts."

As the Gryffindor fifth years entered the classroom, they eyed it suspiciously. Obviously the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had redecorated. Besides some strange tapestries and charts on the walls, several of which Hermione identified as sheet music, the room now featured a large, sombre-looking gong, a few shamanic drums with strange designs painted on them and a large, battered double-bass. Professor Varlerta was sitting on her desk among a pile of half-torn books, legs swinging freely in front of the desk to display a set of black biker's boots showing from beneath her black witch's robes. 

"She's quite weird, don't you think so?" Ron whispered to no one in particular. Harry wasn't quite sure but thought Ron might be right. "She's American, anyway, if her accent is anything to go by," added Hermione, barely audible. "Not that that's the point, though."

"Welcome to your first lesson with me – or should I say my first lesson with you?" Professor Varlerta got up from her desk to pace in front of it. "This year you are due to do Strengthening mainly, which happens to be one of the things I specialise in. Who can tell me what Strengthening is?"

Of course, Hermione's arm shot in the air, but so did a few others. Harry himself thought he might have an idea. Professor Varlerta nodded to Seamus Finnigan to reply.

"It means to Strengthen – er, to shield yourself against a curse so it won't work on you."

Professor Varlerta nodded again. "What do you have to Strengthen to be shielded against a curse?" This time only Hermione indicated she had an answer and was allowed to put it forward.

"You have to coordinate your body and mind by magic to Strengthen both against the curses of an opponent. Strengthening can be done without a wand – one of the very few kinds of magic you can do without one. It works a bit differently for each wizard and witch. And you can use it on all curses, besides, obviously, Adava Kedavra, and…" 

"Stop!" Professor Varlerta's face betrayed her effort not to grin, and there was amusement in her voice. "Let's take things one step at a time, even if you're ready to teach us the whole story already. - You should be Granger, right?"

Hermione blushed purple, but held her back very straight as if bracing herself for some insult to come. However, Professor Varlerta just murmured: "Hey, that's not a bad idea. I'll come back to that in the future." She then resumed:

"We will learn several ways of Strengthening, some of which could be considered classical magic, while some of them will feel new to you. I have lived among Muggles for many years, and while I see the absolute necessity of teaching you magic, I assure you that some of the finer Muggle arts which have been neglected in these halls so far will come in extremely handy in Strengthening." 

There was some confused murmur in the classroom. _Muggle_ arts? What would they want to learn _that_ for? Mercilessly, Professor Varlerta continued:

"I will teach you to do a mixture. We will learn spells. We will meditate. We will explore the nature of magic a bit. We will practice with and without wands. Also, we will employ music – hence the word 'enchantment'! And of course we will write extremely long essays." Someone behind Harry moaned loudly.

"Talking about music – as you may or may not have heard so far, I am doing some research on music, Duelling and Strengthening. You will have noticed my soundproof research building besides the lake. I strongly advise you not to approach it uninvited. However, I agreed with Dumbledore on taking on two or three especially talented students as apprentices who will help me with my research and will receive special training. The students will have to drop one or two of their minor subjects – say, Potions and Divination –"

Harry couldn't help but burst out laughing, as well as most students. Around Professor Varlerta's eyes a few lines twitched, but she kept her expression serious. "Anyways, although this may cause a tragic defect in your education, I hope a few students interested in the high art of music will do me the honour of signing up for my little auditions where I will chose those who show the best aptitude for my project. – Well, enough of that! Please open your books at section one – 'Strengthening - an introduction'. We will read it aloud in turns. Please all be sure to make notes on everything you find important or do not understand." 

The rest of the lesson was rather uneventful: The introductory chapter of _Dark Magic Won't Defeat Me by Miranda Goshawk and Gregor Forcet contained no allusions to Muggle arts. Rather it contained sections like 'A short history of Strengthening' as well as 'Curse Systematics'. Obviously there was a great deal of grey theory involved, Harry thought. However, somehow the chapter failed to give a satisfactory explanation for the fact that some curses worked and some didn't. It talked a lot about 'inherent magical strength': If the strength of the cursing witch or wizard was larger than the strength of the cursed person, the curse would usually work; if not, it would misfire. That seemed simple enough. However, Miranda Goshawk and Gregor Forcet seemed rather unwilling to explain what 'inherent magical strength' was and how to develop it. _

"For your homework, please summarise the content of the chapter and critically reflect upon what it does and what it doesn't tell you. If you find it falls short of introducing you to the topic of Strengthening, write down the points you believe should be in there," the teacher told them. "And those who want to sign up for the auditions, be sure to do it today, because I want to hold them tomorrow."

"Now what kind of assignment is that?" Ron complained. "If she thinks the book is crap, why did she make us buy it in the first place?" 

"I thought it was interesting, but I didn't understand it all. I will review it tonight and maybe do some background reading," Hermione said to nobody in particular.

"Will you audition for that research thing?" Harry asked. Hermione snorted through her nose. "Yes, right, audition! La, la, la!" Hermione deliberately sang a few notes, which were so out of tune that even Neville shuddered when passing them. "There's no way I will miss some of my lessons to do research on _music!"_

"_I wouldn't mind to get out of Potions and Divinations!" stated Harry, and Ron murmured in agreement. "__Minor subjects! Maybe she's not friends with Snape after all!"_

"Yes, it sounds nice to miss Potions, but I suspect her auditions are _really hard." Neville joined them in their conversation. "I wouldn't dare show up there, she'd probably laugh at me!"_

"You might as well try it," Hermione replied. "You've got a nice voice, and I know you can hold a tune, too. I don't know what she is looking for, but she's got no reason to laugh at you!"

Neville blushed furiously, but said nothing for a while. Then, after a long pause, he addressed Hermione:

"But you think what she's doing must be rubbish."

Now it was Hermione's turn to blush – she certainly wasn't the kind to talk like that about a teacher. "Er, well, no, I didn't actually say that," she replied. "Er, maybe it's rubbish, but it might also be really great. But then, I don't have Divination but Arithmancy, which I certainly wouldn't want to give up, and I don't even think Potions is that bad – besides the obvious, of course!"

"Well, I think it is that bad," murmured Neville. Hermione nodded.

"Then I think you should really go to that audition. It's tomorrow afternoon in that funny building. Go for it, Neville!"

As if prompted by this remark, Neville tripped over his own feet and spilled the content of his bag all over the staircase.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Professor Varlerta really seemed to think Potions a 'minor' subject. As usual, the Gryffindors had their Potion lessons with the Slytherins of their year, a group that had been reduced to seven students. Professor Snape did not comment on this, but started his first lesson of the term with a long sermon about Orderly and Thorough Work, something he assured them they would need if they wanted to pass their O.W.L.s at the end of the year. Just when Snape admonished them to meet the Challenges of Adult Life with Discipline and an Organised Mind, Professor Varlerta interrupted him by dropping in unannounced without even knocking. Obviously, her visit came as a surprise to Snape, too – when he heard the doorknob turn he deepened his frown and opened his mouth very wide as if to shout at whoever dared enter. However, as he saw Professor Varlerta, he closed his mouth and actually smiled. 

"Hello Verus. May I interrupt your class for a second?"

Snape said nothing but made an inviting gesture with his hand. Professor Varlerta addressed the class:

"Some of you have signed up for my auditions, and I scheduled you for this afternoon. That should be Parvati Patil, Millicent Bulstrode, Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom. I'd like you to come to my research building in the order I just announced. Each will take about twenty minutes. So please come with me now, Miss Patil. The other ones I will expect in twenty, forty minutes and so on. If you will excuse them for that time?" She looked at Snape, who just nodded and smiled at her when she left the classroom together with Parvati. 

"Verus! Now what's that supposed to mean? A nickname for the old dragon?" Ron snorted when Snape turned away and shuffled around noisily with a few enamelled cauldrons. 

"It's Latin and means '_the true one_,'" replied Hermione softly.

"Oh, how cute," said Ron with sarcasm in his voice while weighing a few firefly legs on his tiny ingredients scale. "The truly horrible one, more likely. Though he's friendly with her, it seems – lets her take a bunch of students out of his class without even…" – his voice trailed off into nothingness when he noticed Snape shoot him a very intense gaze across the room. For once, the teacher said nothing, and even when Millicent Bulstrode started packing her things to leave the classroom he merely raised an eyebrow. The class continued grating the ingredients for their Alertness Potion, which was supposed to help focus people's perception on specific tasks for a limited time – "something most of you should be taking every day in my opinion," as Snape had barked at them earlier.

An hour later, the Potions were simmering peacefully in their cauldrons – only Neville's potion was a little lumpy. "I would not recommend that anyone drinks a potion looking like THIS - it would make you all very shaky and would focus your perception on goodness knows what!" had been Snape's comment. Neville, who was still very afraid of Professor Snape, turned white and quite shaky at this putdown without drinking his potion, but then he emptied his cauldron into the waste basin in the rear of the dungeon and started to pack his things.

"What are you doing, Longbottom? The lesson's not over only because you proved once more you failed to profit from it!" Snape said icily. Neville turned whiter still, but then straightened his back and looked Snape directly in the eye.

"I'm due in Professor Varlerta's building in a minute for my audition, as she said when she was here." This time Snape raised both of his eyebrows.

"Oh, right. Mr. Longbottom is going to the au-di-tion." He seemed to savour every syllable of the last word. "The chance in your lifetime! Just watch where you are going and don't knock over all the complicated instruments! I really should have warned Professor Varlerta about what she's going to let into her sanctuary!" 

Neville's bottom lip trembled, but he put his cauldron back on the shelf, shouldered his bag and left the classroom without another word. A few minutes later Seamus Finnigan reappeared, sat down on his seat next to Dean Thomas, grinned at him and whispered something in his ear. Seamus nodded vigorously until Snape told the two of them off for talking in class. The teacher ended his lesson with giving the class a lengthy essay about different versions of Alertness potions to summarise for their homework.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the evening when Ron and Harry were playing wizard chess in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ginny suddenly burst in, squeaking excitedly: 

"I got it, I really, really got it! That's so cool, that's so, so cool!"

Ron looked at her in amazement. "What did you get?"

"The part! I mean, the research part! I'll be working with Professor Varlerta in her building! She's got a million instruments and complicated machines in there. She's even got a drum set and said I could play on it. And I'll learn everything about audio magic, and I'll get out of Muggle Studies and Arithmancy, and…"

"_Audio magic? What's that supposed to mean?" Ron frowned at his little sister, toying with a bishop of Harry's he had just taken, a little figure that wriggled in his hand, moaned and complained.  _

"Magic that works through the production of sound. Haven't you heard? That's Professor Varlerta's specialty!" The voice belonged to Hermione, and when Ron and Harry turned around, they realised she might have stood behind them for a while. Ron, who was still a bit distant with Hermione, eyed her suspiciously. "I thought you said it was all crap!"

"Well, I don't anymore," answered Hermione. "I read up on it, and it's quite interesting – a new brand of magic, or rather, an old one that is being rediscovered. Professor Varlerta is supposed to be working on some rather important things now, and it's a great opportunity for Ginny to work with her." Ginny beamed at Hermione.

"So how come you did not get out of Potions like she said?" Ron asked. Just like Harry, Ron truly hated Potions and would not have easily given up the opportunity to get rid of that subject.

"Well, she had to coordinate things with our timetables and hers, and Neville wanted to get out of Potions _so_ bad. It was either him or me, so I decided to make him happy for once."

"_Neville??" Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing._

"Oh, yes, he's the other one. Professor Varlerta said she believed he's really got music in his wand."  


	3. Hermione

3 – Hermione 

Instead of the Strengthening book, Professor Varlerta slammed an apple-sized, round object onto her desk – a small, obviously sand-filled canvas sack tied shut on top. "Basics and pre-requisites," she said rather loudly, making everybody look up from their books and rolls of parchment. "Theories! I'm giving you the tour on some recent developments in magical thinking and research today."

What is she up to now, wondered Hermione. She straightened out the piece of parchment with her summary. Professor Varlerta looked at them silently for a few moments, then asked:

"So what made sense to you in that chapter and what didn't?"

Grouping their answers on the blackboard, she drew up a table of 'curse systematics' and 'counter measures'. For example, slow curses worked to influence the behaviour or well-being of a person on a long-term basis were only countered by a 'concentration of inner magical strength.' This inner magical strength could be enhance by meditating, Miranda Goshawk and Gregor Forcet had stated somewhere in the chapter. For quickly working 'sudden attack curses' it was possible to draw up several kinds of magical shields which could even serve in the protection of others. 

"This table is what I consider the essence of the chapter. I let you read the thing, rather than give you the table straight away, not only because the chapter gives you a lot of background information" - Hermione neatly copied the diagram on parchment, pleased with its orderly form, with the way curses were logically grouped – "but also to illustrate the main problems of Strengthening for you – namely _those_!" With these words, Professor Varlerta pointed to the far left side on the board, where, prompted by students' remarks, she had written:

'What is inherent strength?' 'How do we develop inherent strength?' 'How can we know whether our inherent strength is large enough to Strengthen ourselves against a curse?' 'How can we conjure up a shield against a sudden attack curse when it's sudden?' 

Professor Varlerta sat back down on her desk again, taking her little sandbag up in both hands. "What makes magic work?" she asked the class.

Hermione was speechless for a second. What _did make magic work? She realised that nobody had ever asked her such a question before and felt a strong desire to find an answer. The other questions asked in this lesson before had been quite basic, and even the neat table had done little to get her mind working. This, however, was different. _

Dean Thomas raised his hand and was asked to speak up by a tiny nod. "You say a word and you do magic. That's the way it works."

"True. But is that all? And if so, how come spells can be successful or unsuccessful?" 

Hermione noticed the class had gone silent. Professor Varlerta sat on her desk, looking patient, dangling her legs. This time she wore sandals on her bare feet as the day was quite warm. She also wore a piece of clothing that had never before been seen in Hogwarts, namely a short-sleeved witches' robe. Hermione wandered if the teacher in front of them thought them all stupid. How could they sit there in the fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and not know how magic worked? She was feeling nervous; she had to say something.

"You practice spells until they work for you. The more spells you can do, the easier it gets, and you can start learning harder spells." She winced inwardly. This sounded like such a naïve view of magic! 

"Practice. An important point. Now, what is practice? Any musicians here? Quidditch players or the like?" 

Hermione looked to her left where Ron and Harry sat, wondering for a second whether Ron would raise his hand. They had made him Gryffindor Keeper just yesterday. She had to conceal a smile; Ron looked like he was just oozing pride when he lifted his hand along with Harry. They had celebrated the event in the Gryffindor common room until late at night with food Fred and George had organised from the house-elves. The twins had told their gangling younger brother again and again that he had to eat if he did not want to be knocked off his broom every single time someone tried to score. "We know you've got Weasley Quidditch blood just like some of your venerable elder brothers, but don't forget you're the Arthur type, not the Molly type. So make sure you eat this," George had said, handing his brother a treacle tart that for once was nothing but a treacle tart. Now the Gryffindor Keeper and Seeker sat side by side, looking rather smug considering they could not really relate the idea of practice to magic, Hermione thought. She was getting an idea herself, though.

"When you practice something," Professor Varlerta was summarising their jumble of suggestions, "you do something over and over again to develop a _skill_. You can watch yourself get better gradually, but sometimes your progress takes a leap, and suddenly you can do what you couldn't do before, you just don't know why. The same goes for magic."

Hermione nodded to herself. So far so good.

"Now what do we learn if we learn to do a spell? With sports as well as with music, there's a physical and a non-physical aspect to skill. There's things like physical strength involved, things like routine. Do you have any idea how it works for magic?"

Now it was easy; Hermione's hand shot into the air. "The inherent strength that's talked about in the chapter we read is like physical strength. We need it to make a spell work and develop it by doing magic. But we need to know the words for a spell, and we need the routine to work it, too."

"Absolutely," Professor Varlerta answered. "There's lots of things about how magic works which we do not know, though, even though magic scholars have tried to explain it for centuries. For one thing, we don't know exactly why witches and wizards are obviously born with very different amounts of magical strength, and why there are Muggles without any of it whatsoever. For another, we do not know what processes steer the thing we just called routine. Some of you may have done involuntary magic as children without having any routine at all, maybe because you were angry or upset. I will introduce you to a model of how magic works, but please keep in mind that it is just that – a simplified model." Professor Varlerta scanned their faces with her gaze. "Am I boring you?" 

Hermione swallowed. She had indeed started to feel bored, tempted to think of other things. She noticed that Ron had started to draw a Quidditch Keeper taking a spectacular dive after a Quaffle on his piece of parchment. 

"Okay, this is theory," Professor Varlerta resumed, getting up from her desk. "We'll come to the practical stuff next week or so if we adequately cover the theory now. I'm trying to make you understand how you worked magic up to now because I want to teach you another way to work it, and you will have to understand the difference." She cast a glance at Ron's parchment. "Mr. Weasley, while a Quaffle moves on its own, please consider that sandbag on the desk for me. What would you do to make it move?"

Ron blushed because he had been caught doodling. "Summon it?" he suggested. Professor Varlerta waved him a go-ahead with her hand. "_Accio sandbag," Ron said, pointing his wand, and the little object took to the air, landing neatly on Ron's desk before him._

"Worked, didn't it?" Professor Varlerta looked pleased. "Now the question is, why did it work? Let's consider a few aspects. For one thing, what if we were French? Let's see: _Accio_ _sac de sable!" The sandbag landed in her hand. "Now here's an interesting question: How come the sandbag knows French?"_

A faint murmur rose in the classroom. Hermione thought the teacher had a point. Professor Varlerta went on to make another one. Throwing the sandbag a foot into the air and catching it again, she suggested:

"We could also give this little chap a name. Any suggestions? Nothing as obvious as 'baggy' though, please!"

"Morgan la Fey," Lavender Brown suggested. Hermione stifled a grin; Morgan la Fey was the subject of an off-colour joke which had recently been circulating in the girls' dormitories. Professor Varlerta however gave an appreciative nod.

"Ok, call her."

Lavender pointed her wand. "_Accio_ Morgan la Fey!" _Thump! there came the sandbag. Parvati Patil giggled in the background. Something dawned on Hermione, and she lifted her hand. Professor Varlerta nodded once more._

 "Professor, do you mean to demonstrate that words do not matter much in a spell? But how can that be? We always learned to work spells with words, and if you do not say the words right, the spell will not work."

"Something tells me you'll go into research some day, Miss Granger." Professor Varlerta smiled at her. Hermione felt some blood rising to her face, sure that this was high praise.  "I'll try to answer your question briefly. The relationship between spell words and spell working is a difficult one. Some spell words appear to be universal: They are the same in every language. For some spells, there are a variety of words which all work. We're touching upon a mystery unsolved by research so far. But this seems to be consensus among the scholars: To influence an object, you have to talk to it. The important thing is that the _object gets your meaning. However, it is not generally believed that an object such as our sandbag understands language. Language is not important to the object, but to you! If you know what you are calling, the object in question will, too. This means you are communicating with things through a mysterious _language of the mind_. As a result, things do what you tell them. This is in a significant way different from what I do now." With these words she walked over to Lavender's table and took the sandbag from her hand. "Influencing things with the strength of your body means you are doing it yourself, not the object is doing it. - You think I'm being trivial, but I'm making a point here."_

Hermione fought a sigh. Get on with the lesson, lady, she wanted to tell her teacher. Professor Varlerta approached Parvati now.

"Now let's consider things on a larger scale. Miss Patil, you are busy looking out the window, so I guess you can see my little research building there." Parvati turned to the teacher standing in front of her, who resumed: "Can you Summon it for me?"

"Excuse me? Can I what??" 

"Summon the building. Make it move here." Professor Varlerta made it sound like a most natural request. 

"Well, of course I can't." 

"Why?" 

Parvati's voice was betraying impatience: "Well, it's too heavy!" 

"So you mean it's more difficult to influence a large, heavy object that's far away and firmly attached to the ground than old Morgan here?" Professor Varlerta was bouncing the sandbag in her hands. "Obviously we have found some categories which tend to resist magic and require to be met with more magical force, something which is in a way like magical strength because it can be measured against it. So here's my point number two: Just like with our physical strength, our magical strength is limited. It can be exercised to a certain extent, but very few of us can move mountains, so to speak. That's what Goshawk and Forcet mean when they speak about inherent strength. If you attack someone by magic, you measure yours against his or hers."

Hermione was frantically taking notes now. She found these things at the same time trivial, confusing and immensely interesting. Meanwhile, the teacher turned once more to the blackboard.

"Immensely simplified, magic works like this. We've got our objects, which have something like strength, namely magic resisting factors. If I overly simplify it, I can assign numbers to it." She drew a sandbag and wrote '5' underneath, then drew a house and wrote '500' under it. After that, she drew a stick figure subtitled with the number '50'.

"Here's Parvati. If you look at these figures and know a tiny bit about Muggle mathematics, it's obvious that Parvati can influence the sandbag, but not the building. That's because she's setting her strength against that of the object. Think of it as a subtraction of powers. – This is the kind of magic you have learned so far and that's practiced most widely in our magical world. It's about forcing objects to your will – moving them, Transfiguring them or whatever. You order them around. If you are stronger than them, fine. If not, no chance. This is very reliable, and also rather limited. However, there's another way. It's not about subtracting powers, but about adding them up. It's not about ordering objects around, but about _Coaxing them to do your will!"_

Professor Varlerta had paced the room and come to a halt beside the window. The class, who was entirely silent for a moment, turned to look at her now. The fine lines around the eyes of the teacher hinted at a smile. 

"You will probably think: Why should I bother with trying to Coax an object if I can order it around? In our culture of witchcraft and wizardry, this is pretty much a basic maxim, and in many cases it's ineffective and tiresome to Coax objects, I admit. However, do not forget that by Coaxing, you may be able to do something which is way beyond your regular strength. If you can persuade it, each of you is theoretically able to move a mountain, though I warn you that mountains tend to be rather lazy and stubborn."

'Do things beyond my strength – move mountains (though stubborn),' Hermione wrote on her parchment note role. For a moment she imagined herself deploring Mount Snowdon to come just a _little_ closer.

"The real point behind what I'm saying is: When you are trying to Strengthen yourself or others against a curse, the normal thing to use is your own strength, as it's very reliable. But it may not be enough, as your opponent will not be a little sandbag like this here," – she deftly threw the object so it landed on her desk with a thump – "it will be a grown witch or wizard, or maybe several, attacking you actively. If you have learned to persuade the world around you, the ground, the walls, the trees, to lend you a bit of strength for a moment, maybe to shield you or to absorb the curse in your stead, it may just come in handy." 

"You will probably ask me now: How do we coach objects then? Well, here's a bit of a problem: I can't tell you, as there are no prescribed spell words for this. Each of you may have to find a different way of Coaxing. It may take you some time to find your own way. I can tell you this, though: Don't start with mountains. Start with teacups or pens or maybe with a small sandbag. Start with an object you easily have the strength to force. You may Summon, Banish or even Transfigure it. Just don't force it, _persuade it. _

"For your homework, please start a magic log. Note all the spells you do or try to do, whether in class or for private purposes, and whether you succeeded or failed. Also note any attempts on Coaxing, how you proceeded and to what result. Be truthful in your log if you want it to help you learn. I won't collect the logs but _will_ expect you to be able to answer questions about it." 

Hermione saw the whole class write down the assignment eagerly while Professor Varlerta started talking to the sandbag in a friendly, almost seductive voice: "Hey there, bag, I mean Morgan if you will, care to fly over here for a bit?" She stretched out her hand, and, _thump! there came the sandbag. _

When the Gryffindors began to leave the classroom, Professor Varlerta held back Harry, Ron and Hermione until the others had left.  

 "Professor Dumbledore asked me to tell you three that there is a meeting this afternoon in his office which you are asked to attend. It is a secret meeting which concerns a very serious matter, so I must ask you not to tell anybody else about it for any reason whatsoever. He said that all three of you have earned the right to be there in spite of being underage, especially as it is likely that all of you will have to deal with the things in question whether or not we try to keep you from it. Will you come?" 

Hermione knew straight away what secret matters Professor Varlerta was referring to, but found it odd that as underage witch and wizards they were included in the meeting. For a second she felt an overwhelming desire to be considered a child like the rest of her year mates who could expect the adult witches and wizards to keep them from danger. But considering some of the things that had happened to the three of them in their first four years at Hogwarts, she knew Dumbledore had a point. Inviting all three of them to the meeting probably meant Dumbledore wanted Ron and her to be at Harry's side if needed. When Harry answered for all three of them that of course they would come, she did not feel the least bit resentful.

"The meeting starts in half an hour," Professor Varlerta informed them. "However, Dumbledore asked me to tell you that if you go to his office straight away, you might have the chance to talk in private to someone you will probably like to see. I don't know who he was talking about, but I hope you do."

Hermione saw Harry's face lighten up immediately. Of course he knew who Dumbledore had referred to; so did she and probably Ron as well. Professor Varlerta read it off their faces.

"I see it's indeed someone you want to see. Run along now, I'll meet you there later. The gargoyle's password for today is _sugar quill."_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dumbledore's office, a beautiful, circular room which caught a lot of sunlight, seemed strangely enlarged. Besides the desk of the headmaster it held ten additional tables and about forty chairs, all arranged along the walls so the participants in the meeting would be able to look at each other. Fawkes the Phoenix was standing on his golden perch. Except for one man the room was yet empty, and that man was Sirius Black. He greeted Harry, Ron and Hermione with a luminous smile. Hermione thought he had never looked so well. His face was fuller than when she had seen him last and somebody appeared to have given him a haircut as well as untattered robes. His eyes had lost some of their haunted look and at times twinkled with the life that glowed within. He's handsome, she realised, and while he shook her hand she found herself wondering for the first time whether Harry's godfather had ever had a girlfriend before his time in wizard prison. Suddenly she felt a wave of pity for the innocent man who had lost so many years of his life to the terrors of Azkaban. 

They sat down at one of the tables. Sirius asked them about things that had happened during the summer. He spotted Hermione's Prefect badge at once, unlike some, but he particularly wanted to know everything about Harry. Hermione noticed that Harry tried to talk as little as possible about his summer with the Dursleys. She saw a longing look in Harry's eyes. If Sirius could only be officially cleared, Harry could move in with him and would never have to see his unpleasant relatives again. Yet none of them even mentioned the possibility.

Sirius appeared to be delighted to hear Ron had been made the Gryffindor Keeper and laughed heartily when they told him about Fred's and George's constants attempts to feed Ron up. "I believe you will do nicely," Sirius stated. However, when Harry, Hermione and Ron wanted to know what he had been up to in the meantime, he refused to tell them any details. "Some of it has to remain secret even here, and most of it you will hear in a few minutes when the meeting will begin. I went to see some people and stayed with Remus Lupin for a time. Buckbeak is still hiding there, as he is too easy to spot to take him places. It was good to see my old friend again. He will be with us in a few minutes when the meeting will begin."

Then Sirius looked sharply at the three of them. "By the way, I do not entirely agree with Dumbledore that the three of you should attend. It is true that all of you have bravely fought the Dark Powers and have earned all of our trust. But I ask you not to forget that you are still underage and have a lot to learn yet. Do not let it go to your heads that you get a place among adult witches and wizards here. You are too young to take on a task like the ones that are discussed here, so I warn you not to do anything on your own in the struggle which is ahead of us. I'd like to think of all of you as being relatively safe."

Hermione could see that Harry had a reply on the tip of his tongue, but just at this moment a short rap at the door startled all three of them. They looked at each other, probably all of them wondering whether whoever was at the door was a person convinced of Sirius' innocence, maybe a witch or wizard early for the meeting, or someone who might betray Sirius to the Dementors. Hermione heard the fugitive wizard take a deep breath. "Come in," he said.

Professor Varlerta entered, searching the room with her eyes and then smiling apologetically. "Sorry to disturb. I had hoped Dumbledore might already be back here as I'd like to ask him something before the meeting."

Hermione noticed a look of interest in Sirius' eyes. Harry's godfather seemed to appraise the slim, black-haired witch in short-sleeved, purple summer robes. As she approached him, he got up to shake her hand. "Sirius Black," he introduced himself. She looked up into his face which lay a scant two inches above hers and smiled; maybe she found him handsome too. "I've heard a lot about you. My name is Varlerta. I teach Defence Against the Dark Arts here at Hogwarts."

"Varlerta… " Sirius was smiling now too, and Hermione found herself wondering if she was just watching two adults flirt a little. "Is that your first name or your last name?" 

"Whatever. I don't do last names anymore." She grinned, then looked at her watch. "Well… the meeting is due to start in three or four minutes. I'd like to wait for Dumbledore and see if I can still catch him before that. Is it alright if I sit down with you? I know you don't get to see much of your godson." She glanced at Harry. Sirius hurried to tell her that they did not mind it at all, so she sat down beside him.

"I don't think I've ever seen you before," he said to her. "Do you come from the States?" "Sort of – I've lived in New York City for many years, but I was a student at Hogwarts once. Now that I think about it, I guess I remember you from then, but you will probably not remember me as I was neither in your house nor in your year. You were friends with Harry's father, the Quidditch champion. It feels like it was in another lifetime, though."

Hermione saw the door open once more. In came Dumbledore and with him more than a dozen witches and wizards, some known and some unknown to her. One of the first to enter was Professor Snape, his hair still limp with dampness. He shot the three of them an unpleasant glance, then saw Sirius and Varlerta who were wrapped up in conversation. Hermione thought his face turned to ice: his eyes looked like they were oozing poison. She could see the muscles of his jaw tense up, while his hand crushed the roles of parchment he was holding. Then he turned away as if to study the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses that hung along the walls of Dumbledore's office. 

Meanwhile, Varlerta excused herself and got up to ask Dumbledore her question. Hermione noticed that Sirius looked after her for a moment before he turned back to the three of them. Varlerta stood in wait behind Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody who were beleaguering the headmaster. Through the door, more and more people pushed into the room, which was getting crowded. "Hey, look, there comes Lupin," Harry exclaimed then. Sirius beckoned his friend to them. The former Hogwarts teacher greeted Harry, Ron and Hermione warmly, the lines on his young face creasing into a smile. All of them had liked him very much. Lupin sat down next to Sirius and asked his former students how they were, the look of worry in his eyes reminding Hermione of the terrible things that had happened during the last year at Hogwarts.

After a while, Dumbledore clapped his hands and then said in a voice which could be heard well above the general level of murmuring noise: "Dear friends, will you please take a seat? We have a lot to discuss tonight, and the sooner we start, the sooner we will finish." Witches and Wizards took chairs and placed themselves at the tables. Besides teachers like Professor McGonagall, Professor Vector, Professor Sinistra, Professor Quibster, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Varlerta, Snape, Madam Hooch, Madam Pomfrey the matron and Lupin as ex-teacher, Hermione recognized Alastor Moody, almost an ex-teacher as well. Then there was Ron's father and his two eldest brothers. Percy, Fred and George were not present, she noticed. Somewhere among a group of witches unknown to her she also saw Neville's formidable grandmother knitting away in all her dignity; not far from her sat Florean Fortescue who sold the best ice cream in Diagon Alley, chatting with Rosmerta from Hogsmeade.

Just as Professor McGonagall went to close the door, one last guest arrived tried to sneak through, a guest who by his sheer size was anything but inconspicuous. Harry shouted "Hagrid!" in delight, then blushed deeply when all heads turned towards him. Hagrid however grinned and waved at him, then pulled up two chairs for himself. The chairs creaked dangerously when the half-giant tried to support his weight on them. He looked rather uncomfortable on the small chairs as his knees drew up almost to his chin. Professor Dumbledore waited until everyone in the room was quiet, then addressed them.

"Dear friends, I have asked you to assemble here today as you are those in the world of magic whom I trust most and whom I believe willing and capable to take a stand in the fight against the Dark Powers. The Dark Lord is on the rise once more, threatening the lives and the peace of all of us. As you all know, we are alone in the fight against him and his supporters. The Minister of Magic and most of his officials refuse to read the signs and to face the struggle ahead of us. I hope we will not remain unaided long: Once the terror of the Dark Powers have reached a certain point, not even the people at the Ministry can close their eyes to what is happening anymore. However, it is vital that we do not wait in idleness until this time comes, but that we unite now, that we look for help wherever we may find it, and that we prepare for things to come.

"Some of you have already been on a mission on our common behalf. Others have turned to me and offered their support. Some of you I have called because I believe you should be here with us. Yet you all must remember that the struggle we are facing may be a bitter one, that our opponents are presently preparing for it at least as well as we ever could, and that all who are on our side may face death and worse for it. You all know what happened to many of those who fought against the Dark Lord before his downfall.

"Of all of those who are to side with us I expect loyalty. Whatever you hear and see today and whenever any of us meet must be kept absolutely secret, even to those who are close to you. If any of you are not prepared to take an oath on this, they are asked to speak up now. I will modify your memory slightly so you will forget what you heard and whom you saw today, Then I will send you home, not as an enemy, but free to act as you will. But those of you who do not speak up I will consider bound to our side from now on as if by oath. So tell me now, is there anyone among you who is not prepared to fight with me against the Dark Lord?" 

For a moment, the room fell into utter silence. Dumbledore held the gaze of everybody present for a moment. He also looked into Hermione's eyes with an intensity that made her wonder whether he could look into her soul. He wants to make us realise this is serious, that this is for real, she thought. She felt rather small suddenly, imagining scenes of torture. Is this why Sirius did not want us here, she wondered? But Dumbledore must have had reasons of his own to invite them.

"I am glad that you are all with us. I expected no less of you," Dumbledore resumed when no one asked to be excluded. "From now on we are a sworn order. Each of us will take on tasks to fight the rise of the Dark Lord. And we will have to turn to each other for help. There can be no enmity among us – " Hermione had the impression that the headmaster had shot reprimanding glances at Sirius, who sat two seats away, as well as at Snape, who leant against the window on the opposite side of the room behind the row of chairs, his face in the shade if you looked at it against the incoming light, "because if we are not united, we will find the fight ahead of it beyond our strength.

"Now that we are all sworn to secrecy, I will ask all of you to introduce yourselves, tell us what you already did to aid our task, or what you mean to do. I assure you that I know everyone in this room to be completely trustworthy, even if you have heard otherwise of some. Minerva – " he indicated to his right, "will you please begin?"

Even though Hermione knew about half the people present at the meeting, she certainly could not remember all of their names or future and past deeds afterwards. The Hogwarts teachers introduced themselves first. She was amazed to hear that Professor McGonagall, Muggle Studies teacher Professor Quibster, Madam Hooch as well as Snape reported of holiday activities such as rousing the magical community. Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch had been abroad, trying to find support for their struggle outside Britain. Professor Quibster, a greyed, ordinary-looking little wizard, talked about a conference with the Muggle Prime Minister who had been reluctant to believe the warning he had been given. Snape told them very briefly about his attempts to convince latent supporters of the Dark Side of the error of their ways. Hermione noticed that, unlike other events she remembered, Snape did not brag. He did not downplay his part either, just offered the bare necessities of information in a few sentences and then fell back into gloomy silence. 

"So what about the other thing, did you get that done, too?" Mad-Eye Moody growled at him, his magic eye rolling fiercely. Snape paled. Dumbledore silenced the old Auror with a stare and asked Hagrid to continue. 

The gamekeeper's report was rather lengthy in contrast. He and Madame Maxime had visited what remained of the dwindling people of giants in their recluses in the mountains of Eastern and Southern Europe. Even though the pair of half-giants had been met with some violence, most giants had declared willing to support Dumbledore rather than the Dark Lord in exchange for the promise that they could live unmolested after the fight had ended. Hagrid's lengthy narration was now and then interrupted by his deep sighs. On the fourth finger of his right hand Hermione spotted the largest and crudest golden ring she had ever seen. Obviously, among all their travels Maxime and Hagrid had found some time for their private lives, too. 

Professor Varlerta was briefly introduced as the new teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts and a researcher in magical Strengthening. Hermione thought she saw Varlerta's hands clutch at a goblet of water until her hands turned white at the knuckles when Dumbledore uttered her name, but apparently there was no special reason for that, as hardly anybody reacted to this announcement at all. 

"You will all know Harry Potter," Dumbledore said then. "He and his friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger are with us today, although they are still underage and students at this school. However, we all know that Harry has faced the Dark Lord several times, and that his friends helped him when they could. I cannot deny them the right to sit with us in this meeting – not because I want to ask anything more of Harry than he has already done," he turned to Sirius who had moved as if to say something, "but because I am convinced that his place is with us, just as his friends should sit here, too." 

The witches and wizards talked among themselves quite loudly. Hermione saw Mr. Weasley, Bill and Charlie look on Ron with pride in their eyes. For a second she wondered what her Muggle parents would say if they knew that she sat in a secret meeting of powerful witches and wizards preparing to fight the Dark Lord. Dumbledore gave the three students a friendly nod, then asked the meeting to continue.

Ron's father introduced a number of witches and wizards who worked at the Ministry and would be on their side rather than hiding their eyes from the recent events like Cornelius Fudge himself. Most of them were unknown to Hermione, although she remembered meeting the chubby, apple-cheeked Obliviator called Arnold Peasegood at the Quidditch World Cup last year. Charlie Weasley had brought three of his dragon-taming friends, one of them a blonde, strong-shouldered witch called Vanessa Craydon who looked upon him with obvious admiration. Bill Weasley talked about his ongoing negotiations with the Gringotts goblins, who so far insisted that they would wait to see whoever promised to be most financially profitable to them before they joined either side. Once those goblins were convinced, he explained, it should not be difficult to get the support of the whole population of goblins. Florean Fortescue offered to look for supporters of their cause in Diagon Alley, while Rosmerta and two friends of hers promised the same for the village of Hogsmeade.

Alastor Moody had come to the meeting with a group of fierce-looking Aurors, six witches and wizards who looked like they Stunned first or maybe even killed first before saying hello. None of them was as scarred as Moody, but nicks and burns on their hands and faces showed they had weathered a storm or two. Mad-Eye told the assembly about patrolling former Death Eater hangouts and spying on some suspicious families. "Slytherin slime, you know the sort," he explained. The room swelled with general murmur. Dumbledore silenced them with a raise of his hand.

"As I've told many of you before, there is no such thing as an Evil House at Hogwarts. It is true that an overly large proportion of all British witches and wizards supporting the Dark Side have been Slytherin. Most of you will also be aware that a lot of Slytherin students have been withdrawn from Hogwarts by their parents after the end of the last school year. This may be just as well, as we can be fairly sure that this school is not a nest that breeds Death Eaters like in older days." Hermione thought she saw Dumbledore glance over at Snape. "As for those who withdrew their children from this school and opened an English-speaking branch at Durmstrang once more, at least we know their names. We as good as know they are on the Dark Side. However, Slytherins such as those who remain with us are not to be blamed for the deeds of those who indeed support the Dark Lord."

Moody snorted as if in disbelief, while all around them the murmuring flared up again. Hermione saw Sirius talk agitatedly into Lupin's ear. Snape stood as if Transfixed, his gaze straight ahead, pretending the debate did not concern him. 

"As we have already touched upon one controversial subject, we might as well continue with the next one," Dumbledore gave the meeting a focus once more. "There is one here among us that was believed to be a traitor for a long time, but now we know he went to Azkaban as an innocent man. We have no proof that could publicly clear him, but I assure you that he is worthy of our trust. Please accept him in our order. I'm talking about Sirius Black." 

All eyes moved over to the wizard sitting at Harry's side, some friendly, some looking rather hostile. While most witches and wizards at the meeting seemed to be familiar with Dumbledore's announcement as they merely nodded, others shouted in amazement or protest. Old Mrs. Longbotton got up from her chair, her face distorted in anger, and pointed at the wizard Dumbledore had indicated with his hand. She gasped: "Dumbledore, this is not possible. Get this scum out of the room and back into Azkaban _now! Some things such as murder most foul can never be forgiven. Think of all the unhappiness he brought over all these families, wizard or Muggle. How can you have him sit here – and next to Harry Potter, too! I've never heard of such tastelessness in my life!" Somebody clapped at her outrage, while others made agreeing noises. _

Hermione saw Sirius turn pale while Harry blushed. Dumbledore got up from his chair, trying to get to the wizened witch through the crowded room. "Calm down, Agatha," he said in a friendly voice. "We all know what you went through, what others went through. Yet we cannot let our pains blind us to the truth. Sirius Black had nothing to do either with the death of the Potters or with blasting away a street full of Muggles. The real traitor was the one who framed him for this, namely Peter Pettigrew, who is very much alive and presently believed to be personal servant to Lord Voldemort!" 

Most people in the room flinched at the mentioning of this name; many talked to their neighbours anxiously. A witch who had sat next to Agatha Longbottom had laid a hand on her shoulder and talked to her in a soothing voice. Sirius remained in his seat without saying a single word, but somewhere on his face a muscle twitched. He knows that some still mistrust him and hate him for things he has not done, Hermione thought. She also knew that Sirius did not consider himself entirely innocent of bringing about the death of Harry's parents. 

As if to protect him by shifting the meeting's attention to somebody else, Dumbledore asked the last remaining wizard to introduce himself. His name was Mundungus Fletcher. Hermione remembered Dumbledore had asked Sirius to contact him after the terrible things that had happened at the end of the last school year. The wizard had long golden hair and a round, friendly face behind chipped glasses. He absentmindedly ran ink-stained fingers along a quill and stated that of course he had quit his studies immediately when Dumbledore had him summoned. He would be at their service. Then he turned to Sirius:

"By the way, old chap, where's Arabella Figg? Didn't you tell me she would be here, too?" 

Sirius frowned at him. "I thought she'd been in contact with you. When I did not see her here I expected you to have a message from her. You do not know why she isn't here then?" Fletcher shook his head.

"I do not like this at all," Dumbledore stated. "It is not like her to be forgetful or negligent. Did she tell you she would come, Sirius?" 

"Yes, she did. I talked to her about three weeks ago." 

The old headmaster stared out of the window for an instant. "This worries me greatly. We will have to look for her, this instant if possible. I think you should go, Sirius." 

Sirius gnawed at his bottom lip, then replied: "I will do what you ask me to, of course, but as there may be need of speed, would it not be better to send someone else, maybe send Mundungus? You know I do not know how to Apparate." Sirius seemed loath to admit it. 

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'd rather have you do it, not only because the special skill you _do_ have makes you inconspicuous at will, but also because I believe she trusts you, something that cannot be said of all of us. We just need to get you a quick means of transportation, a good broomstick or maybe even something that won't look odd in Muggle territory."

"Know how to ride a motorbike?" Varlerta asked Sirius. "A flying Harley?" 

Sirius nodded; the worries in his face gave way to an expression of great eagerness. When Varlerta threw him her silvery key chain across the room, he caught it deftly and pocketed it. "You'll find it parked outside the new building behind the lake," she told him, ignoring Arthur Weasley's reproachful stare. "Start it like a normal motorbike. Green button makes it fly, yellow button makes it invisible, blue button is for weather protection. Watch the case on the back, it's a shrink box." 

Getting out of his seat, Sirius nodded to her, then briefly laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I won't be long, just a couple of hours I hope," he said.

"Get back here safely, and let's hope Arabella just got a date wrong for once," Dumbledore told him. Hermione thought he still looked worried, while Harry seemed positively disappointed. Sirius waved to them once, then walked out the door, keys jingling in the pocket of his robes.

After that a few witches and wizards discussed their plans. Lupin, Fletcher and a witch from the Ministry whose name Hermione had not quite caught, declared they would keep a secret guard on Azkaban. The Dementors could not be trusted, they said, and everybody expected the Death Eaters to attempt to free the prisoners in there. Snape, blatantly ignoring Lupin, asked Fletcher to talk their plans over with him in private as he just might know something that was of interest to them. Charlie Weasley, Vanessa Craydon and their friends asked Hagrid to help them with securing the cooperation of non-human magical creatures. The Aurors proclaimed they could not reveal their plans yet, but as Dumbledore seemed to know them and agree with them, nobody found this suspicious. 

"One of the most important issues for today," Professor McGonagall reminded everybody before the meeting was closed, "is to ensure the safety of our homes, our families, and of ourselves. As you have seen, attacks on wizard households have already started. Protect your houses with spells. Make them fireproof and protect all doors and windows with passwords. Every house must be made into a fortress. Ask for help here if you do not know how to do this. Help each other. Watch your wizard neighbours' houses and have them watch yours. Even if they are not yet convinced of the danger, warn them, encourage them to protect themselves. Do not leave your younger children out of sight."

"Constant vigilance!" Moody roared. Hermione had the impression that the threat of terror made him feel quite himself; he sounded almost happy. 

"You should also know that we are doing our utmost to protect this school," Dumbledore continued. "As before, Hogwarts will once more be the haven for those who have most to fear from the Dark Lord. If you believe your life to be in danger, come here. All Hogwarts teachers are working on protective spells which will be no mean task for anyone trying to enter against our will. We do not expect open attacks or even a siege yet, but will prepare for the things to come. If anyone can be considered safe at all in these difficult times, it will be our students, our hope for a future when once more peace shall reign."

Later most participants stood around discussing serious matters or just chatting with people they had not seen for a while. Hermione found this peculiar: The atmosphere seemed to be one of a meeting of fierce war strategists and one of a family reunion at the same time. She stood on the side with Harry, Ron and Lupin, who carefully asked Harry about his participation in last year's Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid stood nearby, listening. Agatha Longbottom meanwhile engaged Professor Sprout in a discussion about her grandson's progress and problems at school. Near the window, Snape was talking softly but animatedly to Mundungus Fletcher, while Professor McGonagall bore down on Varlerta: 

"I haven't had much chance to talk to you yet, my dear girl, but I am so glad to see you back with us. It is good to know you have not been idle and found a way to make use of the thing you love most. Still playing the lute, or was it a guitar?"

"An electric guitar," Varlerta replied meekly. "In the States we've got a thing called Rock'n'Roll, you know. It works very well for my magic. I think of it as a wall of sound that may prove to revolutionise Strengthening."

"Just so it works, it will be fine," Professor McGonagall answered vaguely, a frown on her face. Old Mrs Longbottom tugged at her robe's sleeve. "Minerva, could I have a word?"

"So you will revolutionise Strengthening with the high art of music, is that right?" Snape's voice drawled from behind. Hermione could see Varlerta turn to face him. 

"Yes, that's right, I sure will."

"You don't see much of a point in modesty, do you?" Snape's voice sounded just like it did when his upper lip curled. Hermione thought there was trouble coming up. Pretending to pay attention to the conversation in front of her, she nevertheless listened to the one on her side. Varlerta did not seem as if she felt put down by Snape's snide remark: 

"I think I should give you a bit of a demonstration so you can see what I'm working on. My method is not completely developed yet, but I have already discovered its significant effects on Strengthening. If you want to see more of it, meet me in the old Duelling Ground at midnight."

"The Duelling Ground? That's preposterous!"

"Why? You never seemed to mind a duel or two in the past."

Snape's voice assumed a steely edge. "I would not want you to get hurt, so let's leave it at that. I assure you, I learned a trick or two since we last duelled."

Varlerta sounded amused rather than scared. "I should certainly hope so, as this was more than twenty years ago. However, I inform you that I too learned a few things since then."

"Well, I'm afraid you do not scare me overly much with your _electric guitar! Don't trouble yourself by carrying it out into the forest tonight."_

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be fine with it even out in the woods. I've got a nice little portable battery amp all tuned up so it does _amazing things. Come on, let's just have a friendly little duel with ordinary curses, no Unforgivables for now. I'm sure it will do both of us nothing but good. – Meet you at the old spot, ok?"_

"Preposterous!" growled Snape and turned on his heels.

"See you at midnight then," Varlerta merrily called after him.

Hermione turned back her attention to the people she was standing around with. Hagrid had placed one of his huge hands on Harry's shoulder, the crude ring on it glistening conspicuously.

"I'm tellin' yeh, Harry, now giants, they's a strange folk. Come down to my hut some time, got lots of stories to tell yeh three."


	4. Ginny

4 – Ginny 

The first few lessons Professor Varlerta gave her trainees Neville and Ginny were mostly about the things she told them to do at the audition session: She asked them to hum certain melodies to their wands until the wands responded and asked them to spend time on Coaxing objects without using any other sound than just words. Ginny found both things fairly manageable; after four days, her wand hummed back at her every time, and she had already managed once to make a chair topple over just by persuading it to. She was still in doubt whether Neville had been a good choice for Professor Varlerta, though: His wand showed lively responses to his humming, but more often than not answered with strange tunes entirely of its own. His attempts at Coaxing so far had had no effects whatsoever, not even on a feather. Neville seemed a little depressed. Ginny wondered whether he had maybe hoped to excel at _something_ only to be disappointed once more. 

Hiding from Neville that she was doing a lot better than him was a bit of a task for Ginny, but otherwise she was happy in Varlerta's soundproof building. She liked how it muffled the world outside, how it sounded and how it smelled, liked all the exotic devices that hung from the walls and did not mind that you had to watch were you walked as many things were lying around on the floor as well. She also liked the two squashy couches standing on the side, the box-like devices which displayed shimmering beads of light on their armatures, as well as the small poster hanging on the wall, displaying a Muggle photograph of a rock band of four people at a gig, one of them Varlerta. The teacher had shown the two of them around, had explained to them the various uses of the strange machines that lined the wall and had demonstrated her magical electric guitar and various other instruments for them. Electricity seemed to be an important thing to her. She had explained that the strange, shiny tiling on the building's roof were solar cells, a Muggle way of turning sunshine into Muggle energy, enchanted so they would function even in the magic-soaked atmosphere of Hogwarts. Ginny knew her father would be intrigued by this, even though probably forced to arrest Varlerta as the whole building was filled with things that looked suspiciously like Muggle artefacts which were illegally altered by means of magic – not to mention Varlerta's flying motorbike. When she hinted at this, her teacher had laughed: 

"This British bureaucracy has brought forward some of the most annoying laws I have ever come across. – No, don't frown at me, Ginny, I don't mean to insult your father's work. I'm all for protecting Muggles from magical influence. It's just that I've lived among Muggles for the better part of the last fifteen years, and never have any of my belongings caused any harm to any of them. My stuff is usually equipped with rather effective Anti-Muggle security. If you plugged that amplifier –" she laid her hand on a large strange box she seemed to have a special affection for "into a normal Muggle socket without magically activating the MEI, it would be just that – a very fine amplifier and nothing more."

"What's an Emmy Eye?" Ginny had asked.

"An M-E-I, a magic-electronic interface, this little silver box here on the side. They are illegal here, too, and I admit they _can_ be abused to harm Muggles, but I have actually got a special permit from the Ministry to use them for my research, as I could never do without them. I brought quite a few of them from New York, some of them really top quality. They are _amazing_," Professor Varlerta said with pride in her voice.

The day after the duel between Varlerta and Snape – she had heard rumours of it in the Gryffindor tower, and like others she had noticed that while Snape had come to class with singed eyebrows, Professor Varlerta was favouring her right shoulder a bit – the teacher said she wanted her two trainees to try something new. 

"As you will work with audio magic, I expect you two to choose your personal way of sound production. This will either be a musical instrument or your voice. This is why I would like you to start working on different instruments today. I've dug out every instrument I own so you can try them. There are a few guitars, lutes and the like, some drums and percussion stuff, a double bass, some native flutes and recorders, but no violin, piano, and no wind or brass instruments, I'm afraid. We might have to go to a Muggle music shop one day so you can try out some more. 

"The first thing to find out is what kind of instrument you like, or if you'd prefer to work with your own voice. Then we'll have to see if the instrument of your choice is the right one for you to work magic on. By the way, I strongly advise you not to make the same mistake as I by choosing an instrument that limits your mobility. I know you are eyeing the drum set, Ginny, but as far as working magic is concerned, I'd call it downright useless because it is too large."

Ginny sighed with disappointment. She heard Neville ask: "Er.. why does your instrument limit your mobility, Professor Varlerta? A guitar is not that large."

"Well… Unfortunately my instrument is electric, and after I got into rock music, I found that an acoustic could never do the same for me. Now I have to worry about amplification, electricity and the like all the time. It's a pain, I tell you. I do have a shaman drum that I like to play, too, which is not that large and works fine magic without amplification, but it's about the only other instrument I can relate to besides my special treasure."

Ginny noticed that while all other instruments in the room had been assembled on the tables of the large room that was used for musical experiments and displayed for their use, Varlerta's own guitar and the largest of her shaman drums stood in the adjoining room which had a show window to the main room. She had admired both instruments before: The electric guitar had a black finish and was inlayed with a beautiful if strange design of mother-of-pearl: a wreath formed by rose branches and a snake winding through them. "I was into Heavy Metal when I had it made," Varlerta had explained to them apologetically when she had first showed it to them. The shaman drum was about a foot and a half in diameter and had a thin wooden frame decorated with beads of bone; its skin was painted in red and black, showing images of people, birds and strange-looking horse-like animals. While she would have liked a go at these two, she understood why the teacher allowed them to try out all her other instruments but not them. 

"I have to prepare some classes," Varlerta told them, "so you'll find me next door at my desk if you need me. Just experiment with all the instruments. I trust you will neither destroy anything nor try out any machines you do not know how to work." Ginny and Neville nodded, and a moment later they were alone with heaps of musical instruments.

While Neville just stood there in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, Ginny took up one of the guitars, plucked the strings gently, then pressed them down with her left hand and tried to find a tune. After a while she put it aside and tried the same on a lute. She then went on to the flutes and recorders which refused to emit any pleasing kind of sound when she blew them. She thought the double bass was too large to fit Varlerta's mobility standards, but played a few notes on it nevertheless. While she was at it she might as well play on the drum set just for a _little_ bit, she decided. Neville, who so far had only been shaking the odd percussion instrument, eyed her as if slightly afraid of her when she sat down on the stool behind the set.

_Crash said the cymbal and __boom said the bass drum. Ginny tried to recall the basic rhythm Varlerta had shown her two days ago. She struggled to get her hands and her right foot to do different things at the same time. Through the loud noise, she heard Neville play something or other on the instruments lying around. After a while, she got the groove going. Rather pleased with herself, she played until her hands started to ache. _

When she stopped playing she saw Neville scrutinise a battered old recorder. Suddenly she realised she was no nearer to finding the magical instrument of her choice than in the beginning, as the drum set was not considered adequate. Displeased, she looked around. As she lacked any better idea she placed the stool in front of the drum set, sat down and put a large African drum between her knees. Varlerta, she remembered, had called it a Djembé and had tilted its foot away from the floor when she played it. Ginny did the same and struck the skin with her hands, finding she could vary the sound by striking it in different places and in different manners. True, a Djembé was no drum set, but she knew straight away she'd prefer it to a guitar or flute. While she played on she developed a little groove of her own. Suddenly an eerie little tune joined in with her. It seemed to entwine with her rhythm, soar above it for a moment, then dwindle back into the confinement of the groove. Neville must be standing behind me, playing something flutelike, she realised. Her hands started to heat up with playing, but she did not mind. She just wanted it to go on and on. Somewhere to the left of her a third sound arose, first softly, then droning with their music. It must be that great gong that picks up the vibration, she thought to herself. When she looked in its general direction, her wand caught her eye. She had left it lying on a table, but now it was hovering about an inch from its surface, looking as if it was about to do a little dance. We're doing magic here, she realised, and a warm feeling of joy flooded her stomach. 

Suddenly Neville stopped playing. Ginny let her rhythm fade out and looked around. Professor Varlerta stood in the doorway, a wide grin on her face. "That's really cool, kids," she said. "I think you found what you were looking for." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the evening Ginny sat on Hermione's four-poster bed in the seclusion of the girls' dormitory, talking boys. That is, Ginny begged and begged until Hermione agreed to tell her some details about her visit to Bulgaria; Ginny had no boys to talk about. True, she still had a crush on Harry Potter, so what else was new? There was really no point in even telling Hermione. As much as she liked the older girl, there was always the danger that she might let something slip to her friend, maybe accidentally, maybe in a well-meaning attempt to fix them up, and what good would that do? Somewhere in her heart Ginny knew she had given up when Hermione had told her she suspected Harry liked that Ravenclaw Seeker.

Ginny could not help envying Hermione just a little. Here she was, a Prefect, the best student of the school, smart and successful, friends with Harry Potter, and on top of that, who was in love with her? An admired, internationally famous Quidditch star. Ginny thought nobody could ask anything more of life. She imagined Victor and Hermione on holiday, somewhere out in the mountains (were there mountains in Bulgaria?), riding on sleek shiny broomsticks until they found a sunny meadow sprinkled with rosy little flowers where cute woolly lambs grazed in peaceful silence. There they would have a picnic, lie down among the flowers, gaze at clouds assuming the shapes of hearts and roses, and then they would sink into each other's arms and – kiss. (Or what else would they do? Her mother had been suspiciously vague on these things when Ginny had last asked her, and recently Ginny had been far too embarrassed to talk about such matters with her. Most of her knowledge had come from the jokes two of her year mates liked to tell when they all lay in their four-posters, but Ginny suspected there was yet much more to know about love and such.) 

Ginny now expected to hear the story of Hermione's successful ascent to everlasting happiness, but was gravely disappointed. She realised that there was more to her friend's reluctance to talk about her holidays than just the wish to keep the juicy details to herself. Something within the scene on the sunny meadow seemed to have gone amiss.

"See, Ginny," Hermione finally told her, "I can't tell you exactly what went wrong except telling you that I realised I don't really love him. I certainly enjoyed it a lot when he showed me and everybody he cared so much for me. At any rate I was flattered. I also like him a lot, I even had a crush on him. But when I went to visit him and saw it meant so much more to him than to me, I realised I wasn't doing the right thing, so I told him. I hated to hurt him and wish I hadn't gone to Bulgaria in the first place, but I knew it was going to get much worse if I didn't tell him." 

Ginny wasn't sure she understood. "But you said you had a crush on him."

"Yes, but that's not the same thing as love. – See, Ginny, it would have been nice to walk around Hogwarts with him, hold hands and everything, show the whole school I made such a glamorous conquest, but that wasn't what this was all about. Krum is eighteen, you know, he's pretty much an adult, and I – I realised that I'm not ready for that kind of commitment yet."

"Did he ask you to …?" Once more Ginny's voice assumed that squeaky sound she hated so much and was trying to avoid. Hermione blushed.

"To sleep with me, you mean? No, he was all gentleman-like about it. Said he'd wait for me, he'd never rush me, give me as much time as I needed. At first I thought it would be alright then. But later I started to wonder what would happen if I made him wait for me all this time, if I wrote him perfumed letters and everything, and then got cold feet about it in the end. Then I'd _really hurt him, wouldn't I? You see, I like Krum a lot for now, but I don't love him enough to make plans for the future yet. I had to tell him something of that, because I thought it wouldn't be fair otherwise. And having a crush on somebody is not the same as being sure you really love him, you know." _

Ginny had never seen things this way before. Suddenly she wondered if she really loved Harry. She'd always believed he was the greatest boy in the world and would do everything for him, even though she had never thought in detail about what everything would be. Wasn't that the same as really loving somebody? She'd also believed if he – or maybe some other boy whose greatness was unquestionable, for example Victor Krum – chose her as his girlfriend, she would stop being the clumsy little Miss Tag-along she'd been all her life for her brothers and their friends. She'd proved she was someone in her own rights then. Of course Prefect Hermione, who could afford to give up even such a great thing as the love of Victor Krum for a minor thing like a doubting heart, had always been someone in her own rights anyway. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Professor Varlerta had Ginny and Neville practice Coaxing objects with words and with music now. At first, Ginny found that while she was steadily improving her verbal Coaxing, she just couldn't get the hang communicating with objects when playing a drum. Varlerta insisted on her trying not only the African Djembé but also the smaller one of the shaman drums, a painted skin drawn tightly over a thin wooden frame. Ginny liked both drums but did not succeed in moving objects other than her wand; she would have liked to play the larger one that the teacher kept in the adjoining room. Neville, she could not help but notice, had hardly any success with Coaxing whatsoever. He could talk to objects for what seemed like hours, or play the recorder at them for a change, but never persuaded any of them to do his will. Both practiced their skills even outside the hours they spent in Varlerta's building, perhaps neglecting their other schoolwork a bit at times, though Ginny decided that at least they should get excellent marks in Defence Against the Dark Arts – _if they got the hang of Coaxing. Yet all their efforts seemed to avail to relatively little. After more than two weeks Ginny was starting to feel a little frustrated: Did the teacher fail to see that they were not getting anywhere? _

One day Varlerta caught her looking morosely through the glass pane. "Why don't you try my large drum for a change?" she suddenly said. Ginny turned to look at her teacher, then without a word opened the door and fetched the drum. The second she touched it, she knew she liked it. The drum somehow felt more solid in her hand than its smaller 'sister drum', as Varlerta called it. The little bone beads hanging from its frame gave the faintest jingle; the skin seemed to vibrate under her fingers. This was the one instrument that felt truly magical to her. She took it out into the main room, took a firm stand in a corner and carefully struck the skin with her right hand, trying to get a feel for it. It was entirely different from the Djembé, not so complex in sound, nothing to make her wand dance around in a frenzy, but when she struck the skin, she felt as if the sound it made somehow came out of herself. She slipped into a regular beat with only slight variations in volume. Neville, who had been playing on his recorder by himself in the other corner, stopped to listen and to watch. Ginny played to the little sandbag. With a _thump!_ it landed at her feet. She then addressed a pile of drumsticks lying in front of the drum set with a few sharp slaps. They arranged themselves in a neat circle around the bag. Then Ginny moved a chair to her side. It landed there upright, its cushion perfectly in place, inviting her to sit on it. Slightly slack-jawed, Neville stared at her. With the hollow-sounding notes produced right in the middle of the skin, she Coaxed his recorder out of his hand and gently placed it on the chair, then changed her mind and played it back onto his outstretched palm. This was fun, she decided and half-turned to face the stately-looking bronze gong, wondering if it would move for her. A shiver ran through it when she played to it; it responded with a soft, low note. Varlerta hurried to grasp it with her hand; the other hand she raised, indicating for Ginny to stop.  

"Okay, okay, I see your point. You can use it for now," she told her apprentice. 

"How did you _do that, Ginny?" Neville looked awed. Nobody had ever looked at Ginny that way before. It was a rather pleasing experience. _

"I didn't do that, the drum did," she had to admit.

"Don't be overly modest, it won't get you very far in life," Varlerta chided. "It's true that this drum is practically soaked with magic, but that doesn't mean everyone can work it. I think you just did a remarkably good job."

Ginny felt her ears and cheeks heat up. She knew she must look like a beetroot once more.

"I see that I have to get both of you good instruments," Varlerta said. "For you, Ginny, it may prove difficult to find another drum that works as well as this one, but we will certainly think of something. For now just take turns with different drums so you don't rely on your favourite too much. As for your recorder, Neville, I'm far from happy with it. It's not only that it's entirely non-magic, but also that I personally find it rather boring even for a Muggle instrument. We'll go to a Muggle music shop to find you something a little more powerful after you've practiced just a little more."

Ginny frowned. She realised she did not want another good drum, she wanted the one she was presently holding in her hand. However, she couldn't very well say so, so she left it at that for now. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day was one of those school days that never seemed to end. In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall told Ginny off for trying to Coax a guinea pig back into becoming a guinea fowl. "Whatever methods you are learning elsewhere, in my class I require you to use the methods you learn here," she said. Eyes downcast, Ginny watched the undecided object of her magical Coaxing attempts change its front extremities from legs into wings, then back into legs, then try out wings once more and finally settle on fins. Later, History of Magic droned on as usual as Professor Binns bored everyone into a torpor with some kind of bygone struggle between Muggles and wizards. Somewhere in the back of the room a fly was buzzing around in perfect homophony with the deceased Professor's voice. Most students spent their time looking longingly out of the window where a sunny early October day gilded the colourful leaves of the Forbidden Forest. Ginny sighed. She wanted out.

Professor Snape seemed to be even more irritable than usual that day, and Ginny knew why exactly. Recently Wheeze Potion Spoiler powder had been the hot thing not only with her year mates. Everybody had it. Sneaking it into somebody else's cauldron had become a fashionable sport. Ginny watched her own cauldron very closely; defending it had become more important than emptying the little sachet she kept in her robe pocket into somebody else's. You never knew what effect the bluish crystalline powder would have on a potion. Sometimes it only exploded, but at most times it affected neither the potion's colour nor consistency but only its magical effect. Ginny had become rather wary of any kind of potion since she had seen Eloise Midgen sporting an assortment of twelve noses spread over her face by an uneven hand. The fate of her year mate Colin Creevey had also been a warning to her: He had been forced to constantly call out in the hallway for almost a week if he did not want to be stepped on: "Excuse me, I'm invisible. Excuse me, I'm invisible. Be careful and don't shove me, I'm invisible." Luckily by now most of him was back in sight. She saw his visible hand fingering his robe pocket just now. Colin should have gotten the Wheeze Prize for himself when he could not be seen, she thought. To increase sales, Fred and George had promised a large assortment of their products as a prize to anyone who managed to Spoil one of the potions Professor Snape was cooking himself in the rear corner of his gloomy dungeon. Ginny watched the teacher tell Colin off rather fiercely, his black brows contracted in anger, his hand moving upwards again and again as if to scratch his scalp, then forcing itself back down again. Ginny took care to remain as inconspicuous as possible and managed not to attract the Potions Master's wrath.

Their training lesson with Varlerta was the last of the day. The late afternoon sun threw a friendly glow on grass and yellowing trees when Ginny and Neville walked out to her building. Dressed in leather pants and a green flannel shirt as she often did when she wasn't in the castle, Varlerta was sitting on the front step outside her door, waiting for them. "It's a lovely day, and like me you've probably been trapped inside all day. Just get out your instruments and then we'll go practice in the forest."

Ginny shot Neville an apprehensive glance when they went inside to fetch recorder and drum. Of course she had never entered the Forbidden Forest in her life. She knew Harry and Ron had, though. The stories they had told her had done little to make her look forward to this outing. Neville did not look overly happy either, but neither of them complained. When they entered the forest a while later – Neville had been obliged to go back for his wand which he had left at the exact location the recorder had been before – both students kept closely to their teacher. 

"What's wrong, don't you like the forest?" Varlerta asked them.

Ginny did not like to admit her fears. "Well, it's usually forbidden to students, isn't it? They say it's dangerous."

"Well, I suppose they are right. You shouldn't come here on your own, especially not when it's dark or when you don't know exactly where you're going. – No, sorry, actually you shouldn't come here without a teacher at any rate. When I was a student here, I broke that rule all the time, but for me it wasn't that dangerous. My family has a long tradition of being friends with centaurs, and if they keep watch over you, you are pretty safe in most parts of this forest. Mind you, there are other parts where even today I wouldn't go unless I really saw the need. But today all we'll do is sit down in the sunshine and practice a bit."

Ginny had to admit that the forest was beautiful in its own way. It had assumed the blazing colours of autumn, streamed with sunlight that shone through the scarlet and golden leaves. Bird songs and the odd shrill sound filled the air. At first Ginny seemed to see strange beings behind every tree, but as Varlerta was walking the narrow path briskly and with obvious pleasure, whistling softly to herself, Ginny decided she was probably only imagining things. Maybe the forest with its rustling carpet of fallen leaves, smelling of the proceedings of nature and of humid soil, held mostly fluffy animals rather than hungry monsters. Even Neville seemed to walk with a firmer step after a while. Ginny's mood lifted.

The clearing where Varlerta guided them was carpeted with soft green grass, a place that looked as if evil avoided it. The three of them sat down on a mossy old tree trunk. Varlerta took a couple of juggling balls out of her small canvas shoulder bag and threw them for her two apprentices to Coax-Summon by music, preferably before the balls touched the ground. After a while, a few balls started to land at Neville's just as well as at Ginny's feet. None of them commented on this, but Ginny had the impression that they were all enjoying themselves now. For a time Varlerta threw every ball they Coax-Summoned for them to do it again, but then she collected them all and got up. 

"This will be your first attempt at Shielding, not against curses but just against these juggling balls. I'll throw them at you, you Coax-Banish them." She walked about ten steps, then turned to face them. "Ready?"

Ginny found that she and even Neville did quite well at this task. Hardly any ball hit them. When a few did, she noticed it did not hurt: Varlerta would not throw the balls very hard and moreover was obviously taking great care to aim neither at their faces nor their instruments. Drumming and fluting away, Ginny and Neville repelled balls into every direction. The flying objects they Shielded themselves against usually changed course in mid-air, landing in Varlerta's outstretched hands to be thrown again. The exercise demanded a great deal of concentration of all three people involved, but Ginny thought it was great fun, and even Neville smiled when Varlerta finally gave up, slightly out of breath.

"You're too good for me already, I'm impressed. You'll easily outrun all your year mates with this trick. It's nice for me to see that my music method helps you improve your skills so quickly. I'll have to find harder tasks for you in the future, though. – Actually I think I'd like to take a tiny bit of a rest now." With these words she sat back down on the tree trunk.

For a few minutes they sat in silence. Ginny rubbed her right palm which stung a bit from playing the drum for such a long time. Neville stared at the juggling balls lying in the grass in front of them, maybe practicing silent Coax-Summoning, albeit with no success whatsoever. Varlerta just sat there, looking into the distance as if she was thinking of something far away. Somewhere behind them Ginny heard a soft noise, like a mistuned horn. She closed her eyes, trying to address the noise in her thoughts. What are you? Will you tell me? she tried to strike contact. Somehow she knew that the thing was approaching them and that it was someone or something she knew from the past. Varlerta seemed to have noticed something as well. 

"There's something behind us that does not belong in this forest. Are you talking to it, Ginny?" she asked rather softly. 

Ginny nodded and whispered an answer. "It's something I know, but I don't know what it is. May I call it here?"

Varlerta's mouth and brow tightened, but then she got her wand out of her pocket and nodded. "You might as well, so we know what it's all about." She got up from the trunk and turned around in the direction from where the noise had come, and so did Ginny and Neville.

Come here, we'd like to see you, Ginny told the noise in her thoughts. She saw something greenish-blue, maybe turquoise shimmer through the trees. It reminded her of something she had once seen. Then the turquoise thing broke through the trees. Professor Varlerta stared at it for a moment, then whooped with delight.

"Cool! It's an Ensouled car!" 

She approached it, wand pocketed, hands outstretched as if to show she was unarmed. "Hi there, drifter. Nice meeting you. Something tells me you and I have work to do together."

Ginny looked at her Dad's old Ford Anglia with a bit of apprehension. It did not look quite the way she had last seen it on that memorable day before she had gotten on the Hogwarts Express for the first time in her life. True, it had been far from new even then, but now it resembled a pile of junk. Its chassis was dented in hundreds of places, the large scratches in the turquoise paint were visible even under a thick layer of dirt, two of its windows as well as a headlight were smashed, and mice seemed to live in the large holes of its seats. Varlerta acted like she did not see those defects. She had waited for the car to halt before her and was now carefully stroking its bonnet, saying: 

"If you want to have a real home again, drifter, come with me. I'll feed you the best petrol they sell, and have someone take care of all those rusty bits and smashed glass. They will check your engine, too, if you like. I'll have you painted and upholstered anew, and if you allow I'll have a CD player installed."

The car shivered, but did not respond. It did not flee either, though. Ginny thought it was her duty to say: "Er, Professor Varlerta, actually that's my Dad's old car."

The smile did not leave Varlerta's lips for more than a moment. "Really? How remarkable! Do you think he would like to sell it?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was already dark when Arthur Weasley arrived, but nobody had told Ginny and Neville to go back inside yet, so after Ginny had greeted her father the two apprentices stood around and listened to several teachers discuss the merits of the car or talk to Arthur Weasley. 

"I am sure you are right, dear, this car is Ensouled," Professor McGonagall said to Varlerta who stood bowed over the open bonnet, contemplating its contents. "It is a strong piece of magic, too. And you said two second year students did that three years ago?" 

"It's not unlikely, as according to Miss Weasley they were the last to fly it. Actually I'm talking about Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter." 

"Oh yes, I remember that incident." Professor McGonagall's face assumed a look torn between reproach and curiosity. Snape, who was standing behind her, wore a look of anger without any such ambivalence. Madam Hooch and Professor Sprout were softly discussing something among themselves, while Professor Quibster was busy peeking over Varlerta's shoulder at the engine of the car. 

"And you think the two might be Ensoulers?" Professor McGonagall asked the younger teacher.

"That remains to be seen, I'd say," Varlerta responded. "However, it's a good sign that both are good Quidditch and chess players, as Miss Weasley told me."

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Actually it's Ronald Weasley who is the great chess player, as far as I heard. Harry Potter is the remarkable Quidditch player. He's a natural when it comes to flying. Ron only recently – Ah, here comes Hagrid with the two of them."

Harry and Ron, dressed in their rather dusty practice robes, were deep in conversation with Hagrid and seemed oblivious to all the gazes turning to them. Hagrid however caught a glance from Professor McGonagall. "Here we go, Professor. Fetched 'em from the Quidditch field." Harry and Ron looked up and at the battered car standing in front of them. "Hi Dad," Ron said in a small voice. 

"Hello Boys, how are you? Don't look at me like you are going to be punished because of the car." Mr. Weasley greeted them with an encouraging smile. "This is all bygone and forgotten. It's just that Professor McGonagall has got a few questions for you."

"This car is Ensouled," explained the head of the Gryffindor house. "As you are the last who – er – _used_ it, we would like to know whether you know how this came about, or if the two of you somehow managed to Ensoul this car yourselves."

"What does Ensouling mean, Professor McGonagall?" Harry asked, shrinking a bit under Snape's positively evil stare. The irritated Potions Master was obviously once more tempted to scratch his scalp. His hands could be seen twitching in his robe pockets. 

"It is a special skill that is quite rare," the old teacher explained. "Many objects used by witches and wizards have a will of their own, something like a mind. Just think of Quidditch balls, chess figures and other game pieces. They are more than just dead things even though they are not real living beings. Some witches and wizards know how to pour something of their magic and their will into these objects to make them that special. The objects then are shaped by use; maybe you heard that the makers of Quidditch balls not only Ensoul them but also train them for the game."

"Ensoulers are usually very good with Ensouled things, that's why I asked Ginny whether you play Quidditch, chess or maybe Uncontrollable Pool and the like," Professor Varlerta continued. "Ensouling a car is a great work of magic that seems to indicate an exceptional talent to me, not the less so if done without intending to. Ginny told me that Mr. Weasley enchanted the car to make it fly and installed an Invisibility Booster, which of course made it rather pliable for your magic." Ginny noticed that her father winced quietly at her remark but nobody seemed willing to reproach him for anything. "However, he said he did not Ensoul it, and that it never showed it had its own will before you two took off with it."

"I don't know how we should have Ensouled it. I never did anything like that in my life. Did you, Harry?" Ginny noticed that Ron had to look down at his friend. Tall and gangly, her brother surely did not have a Keeper's built. 

Harry shook his head. "Nope. I never even knew there was such thing as Ensouling."

"We should try to find out more about this, maybe invite an Ensouler into the castle to test and – if they are talented – train them." Professor McGonagall turned to the two fifth year students again. "Please report to me tomorrow night at seven so I can run some first experiment on you. If one of you is an Ensouler – or even both of you – we should know about it."

"But we've got Quidditch practice tomorrow night again," Harry reminded her. "In fact we should be going back there right now. Angelina will be fuming as it is. You know we are playing Hufflepuff next week."

Professor McGonagall, who, as Ginny knew, would always see reason where Quidditch was concerned, nodded. "After Quidditch practice tomorrow night then, in my office. And you'd better still be awake then."

Harry and Ron nodded and then quickly headed back off to the Quidditch patch, probably right back to their former conversation about complicated broomstick movements.

"Mr. Weasley, would you consider selling me this car?" Varlerta addressed Ginny's father rather baldly. Ginny could see him swallow, then shake his head.

"Keep it, please, it's only a piece of junk. It was never a great car to begin with, and now – well, it doesn't look like it's worth repairing. If you think it can be useful to you, you are welcome to keep it, but I fear it will not live up to your expectations."

Varlerta was not convinced. "It's Ensouled and could be made highly useful, especially if it has a friendly disposition. I believe the damage you mentioned is only an external matter." She assessed the car once more, patted its bonnet and ran a finger along a broken rear-view mirror. "What about four hundred Galleons, two hundred more if the car proves to be an able and willing means of transportation?" 

Ginny could not believe her ears. That was quite a fortune, even though she had no idea how much people usually paid for cars, much less for Ensouled cars. Her father seemed to think it was a lot of money as well. He even seemed a bit offended; his eyebrows contracted towards the bridge of his nose, wrinkling his very high forehead. Ginny knew he was touchy about taking money from anyone in any circumstances. Bill had told her once that his colleagues at the Ministry joked he would not take a sandwich from anybody for fear it might be either a bribe or an act of charity.

"Excuse me, Professor Varlerta, but this is quite ridiculous," he said. "This car is old. If I am not mistaken, Muggles would just throw it away. You are probably right when you say it is Ensouled, but that was none of my doing. Why should I take your money?"

Professor Varlerta just laughed. "Stubborn, aren't we, Mr. Weasley? Well, I assure you I can afford to pay for this car, and I'm not planning to rob or cheat you either. I'd love to own it, and I could not very well use it – and maybe damage it – if I did not own it. As for the price, put an ad into the Daily Prophet and see if I don't have to raise my bid. Of cause, you could also be kind to me and give it to me for the price I just suggested." When Arthur Weasley shook his head, she lowered her voice and approached Ginny's father to whisper something in his ear. Ginny, who had a very accurate hearing, picked up the words nevertheless but wished she hadn't as they embarrassed her. 

"If you don't want the money for yourself, take it for your children. I hear a couple of redheads talk about new broomsticks rather frequently, and some birdie told me your daughter just might like to own a drum set."

"But you are doing so much for my children already," was his whispered reply.

She smiled enigmatically. "Are you sure it's not your children doing a lot for me, Mr. Weasley?" 

Arthur Weasley fidgeted, complained and tried to bargain her down on the price, but ended up walking off to his portkey with a heavy bag of gold, though not without bidding Ginny properly goodbye and giving her a fair portion of good fatherly advice. When Professor McGonagall realised that Neville and Ginny were still out there, she reprimanded them slightly and insisted they return to Gryffindor tower right away. Ginny sighed. She would have liked to stay outside in the clear, starry autumn night a bit to see what Varlerta would do with the car. Most teachers were now walking back in direction of the castle. As Ginny stood there waiting for Neville, who had misplaced his wand somewhere in the grass and was now searching for it in the darkness, she overheard how Snape, scratching his scalp, told Varlerta to enjoy herself with her purchase with a decidedly ironic undertone. In reply she said:

"I know it's none of my business, but whatever you are doing to your hair is not good for it. Is it perhaps possible that you have been washing it a tiny bit too often lately?" 

"Well, what do you suggest I do instead with it, _Ms_ Varlerta?" Snape thundered at her, seeming to grow a foot or two in height. As Neville appeared to have found his wand, Ginny tugged at his sleeve with insistence. Somehow it did not seem a good idea to be present when the Potions Master exploded.

"Maybe a potion might help?" Professor Varlerta answered him pleasantly. 


	5. Sirius

5 – Sirius 

He waited patiently until Hedwig had finished preening herself, then tied the letters to Harry and Dumbledore to her leg. Stroking her feathery head briefly, he told her to hurry North to the great wizard school. He knew he needn't even have given the owl these further instructions, as it was a lovely, reliable bird, yet somehow telling her to speed made him feel a tiny bit less trapped. He would have liked to fly North, too.

Dumbledore had instructed him to stay where he was, namely the isolated house of Mundungus Fletcher somewhere near the rough coast of Devon. He was not to mount the motorcycle, or leave the house in the shape of Snuffles, or let anybody else see him. From his window Sirius could hear the seagulls cry as if mocking him in his cell. He told himself not to be silly as he watched the great owl soar away. After Azkaban, this clean, friendly room, completely devoid of the influence of the Dementors and utterly lacking the maddening screams of the tortured, should be heaven. He had a window to look outside and could smell the sea, something which, he reminded himself for maybe the seventh time that day, he would have wished for if he had even been able to wish for something during this time. Sirius gazed out of the window, trying to see as much of the little back garden with its trees and flowers as he could. Being locked inside for little more than three weeks had him back at craving to see the sky above him, to touch a tree or to Transform into a dog and run through the meadows as if there wasn't anything else to be done in the world. Not to mention… A sigh escaped his lips. 

Among all the dreariness of his present situation, which was worrisome as well as slightly depressing, Sirius saw a ray of light at the end of the tunnel. Thinking of it he felt elated, in love, almost young again. He had indeed fallen in love, namely with Professor Varlerta's shiny Flying Harley. It was a neat little thing, well-made and well-enchanted, a little lighter than the motorbike he had owned a lifetime ago, but certainly a jewel among motorbikes. Presently it was standing in Mundungus' garden shed, hidden by some complicated spell. If he could only be sitting on it right now, free to fly where he pleased! When he had sped through the clouds on it, the wind in his face and the world gliding along beneath his invisible wheels, it was almost as if these years of torture had never happened, as if he was still a careless young man, full of hope, a life full of promises still before him. At least he had believed it was.

Sirius liked to stay on the move, if only to avoid thinking about these things. While still in Azkaban, sorrow had been omnipresent for him. It was as if the night when his life was shattered had never ended. Time did not really pass in Azkaban, you knew neither evening nor dawn there. For the two years he was out he had done his best to run away from time, but hardly succeeded. Every sunrise told him not only that most people he had ever cared for were dead and decayed, but also that the same could be said for the hopeful young man on a flying motorbike who had once believed the world his oyster, who had challenged the world to equal him in strength. The same could be said for twelve years of his life. 

"Moping Myrtle," he chided himself and left the room to go downstairs and make himself a pot of tea just to have something to do. Keeping close to the inner walls he was sure he was not visible from outside. The window of his own room they had bewitched to hide him. Why not at least bewitch the other windows of the house so he could move around a little more freely? He decided to ask Mundungus to help him with that once he had returned from work and darkness had fallen, which would enhance the spell.

After he had filled the kettle in the windowless bathroom because the kitchen sink was too close to the front window he settled down in the gloomiest corner of the small, dusty kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. If Mundungus would only come home! Or if there was at least something to do in this house, maybe something to read, some books about anything else other than these accursed ancient runes Mundungus had dedicated his life to. For maybe the twentieth time he picked up yesterday's _Daily Prophet_, rereading articles and advertisements, pondering once more about the two words in the crossword puzzle he had not been able to figure out, and finally getting back to the article on the front page. Consider the effort: After being the focus of attention for three weeks now, and in spite of everything else that was happening, he was still making the front page. _Because of everything else, he told himself bitterly. After all, once more he was the most famous murderer in the country in the eye of the magical public. Sirius reread yesterday's article even though by now he almost knew it by heart._

_Aurors continue search, but still no trace of Black._

_Chief Auror Gerold Hawks emphasizes that public accusations of a fouled-up investigation in the case of fugitive Black (as reported by the _Daily Prophet_) are unjust: "While the public outcry for an arrest is understandable, people should keep in mind that even Aurors cannot do more than magic." Claiming that Black uses sophisticated Dark Magic to kill as well as to elude capture, the disconcerted official refused to take the blame for the Aurors' continued failure to catch the alleged serial killer who is the chief suspect in the brutal Kinney and the Figg murder cases. After the sighting of the Dark Wizard on a Flying Harley in the town of Little Winging on September the 10th, in spite of a broad international search no further traces of Black have been found. _

While Hawks refused to comment on the rumour that Black's heightened activities of terror are connected to a general rise of Dark Powers, Ministry officials claim they have proof that this is not the case. "Getting hysterical about a possible connection to You-Know-Who is just the thing that is harming this investigation," Cornelius Fudge repeated to the Daily Prophet. "It is obvious that Black is working alone for reasons of his own. We should not forget that after more than a decade spent in Azkaban, he is probably not of a sound mind – if indeed he ever was."

Sirius put the paper down, trying to fight down the desperation growing in his heart. He tried not to look at the picture the paper had printed again and again: He was on the motorbike trapped in an everlasting sequence of take-offs, his face distorted as he had just made the most grisly of discoveries after three days of searching. A scream of frustration lurked in his throat when he thought about the article. Wasn't it enough that he had spent all those years in prison, that he had spent most of the last two years hiding in squalor? He would have liked to live the rest of his life if not in peace, then at least not in hiding. His thoughts wandered to Harry. When they had first met he had believed he could be a surrogate father for the boy, but he had come to realise that if his name was ever cleared, Harry would be grown by then. Contact with his best friend's son had always been rushed, cut short by more urgent demands. He'd said he'd be back in a few hours – and now more than three weeks had passed, and with the country full of blood-thirsty Aurors, there was little chance for him to get to Hogwarts alive any time soon. Not for the first time, his thoughts strayed to Gerold Hawks. The chief Auror of Britain had been at the meeting of Dumbledore's secret "Order." Hawks must know that Dumbledore trusted Sirius, that he sent him to find Arabella Figg and her elderly mother to make sure they were safe, not to butcher them. Was Hawks' head-hunt only a show, or did the Chief Auror disagree with Dumbledore? Sirius was sure the Hogwarts headmaster would have told him if it was safe to come out of his hideaway, so it could not be wholly a show. They were out there to get him, to hand him to the soul-sucking Dementors, and once more he was framed for mass murder, not to mention claimed to be insane. Gnawing at his lower lip in confusion and anger, Sirius poured the boiling water into the teapot, then practically crawled over the floor to get the milk out of the magic-powered fridge beyond the window.

When Mundungus came home a few hours later, Sirius was eager to talk to him, actually to talk to anybody at all. The golden-haired, slightly chubby scholar of magical runes sat down with him at the table, pouring himself a cup of Sirius' ninth pot of tea. The rune expert leaned back in his chair to tell him the latest news.

"It is as I suspected. The Figgs were Leagues, just like the Kinneys. This leads us to a pattern we've had before, and I do not like it at all. There is no claiming You-Know-Who's murders are pointless anymore."

Sirius had heard the expression 'League' before – some time before he went to prison. He could not quite remember what it meant, so he asked and got a longer answer than he had expected.

"Well, in short the 'League for Magic and Non-magic Cooperation' are an international group of political activists, so to say, who believe that Witches and Wizards should cooperate with Muggles and do what they can in solving the world's problems. They strongly oppose the general praxis of keeping Muggles ignorant of our existence."

Sirius frowned. "Sounds like they are looking for Mayhem."

Mundungus took off his chipped glasses to wipe them on his robe's sleeve. Sirius noticed the deep imprint they had made on the nose of the near-sighted wizard. Squinting a bit, Mundungus looked at him.

"Many wizards feel that way. They think the League are simply crazy. It's an illegal organisation, too, strictly speaking, even though I never heard of anybody who was punished for being League. – See, we are talking about a movement that is thought to have its origin in the Middle Ages, if not earlier, and which has weathered many storms through time. It's not like You-Know-Who is the first to try and do away with them all. Though that may be difficult – no one knows how strong the league actually is, especially if you think globally."

To Sirius, who had not been involved with either politics or medieval history very deeply before he went to Azkaban and who presently had other, more pressing things on his mind, all this was rather new. "What's Vol- excuse me, what's You-Know-Who got to do with a medieval bunch of lunatics?"

Mundungus chuckled, rubbed his bruised nose and put his glasses back on. Pushing a few long, golden stray hairs back over his forehead, he said:

"Ok, I better start from the beginning so you'll understand. Do you know anything about how society was organized among wizards and Muggles in the time of Feudalism, maybe earlier? I mean, anything besides the things Professor Valium Binns taught you?" 

Sirius scratched his cheek, the place where other men who had not experimented that recklessly with Animagus spells had beards. What in the world was Feudalism again? He shook his head:

"Always hated History of Magic. Could not stand to listen to the old ghost for a second. I can't figure out how you could."

The golden-haired former Hufflepuff, two years older than Sirius, had been notorious not only for being the top student of the school when it came to Ancient Runes, but also for being one of the few who was interested in History of Magic. Sirius had always considered him to be quite a nerd. Surprisingly, Mundungus did not seem to respect their ghostly former teacher overly much. Now he slapped the table with his palm, a look of grim triumph on his face.

"See, that's what you get for trying to cut down expenses by keeping on ancient or deceased teachers! Their knowledge is just not up to date, and the price you pay is a generation of witches and wizards that is virtually ignorant of all things that matter! With You-Know-Who and the League at war again, we should really know what we're up against! – See, when Binns was alive and started teaching, all they taught you in History of Magic was an euphemistic view of all things that were not-so-nice. Students weren't supposed to worry about history, so all they gave us was surface information about Goblin Wars, which were nothing but a mere symptom of the bigger struggle behind it all."

Mundungus started to get heated up with talking. His hands were underlining his emotions in wide, expressive arches. Obviously, this was one of his favourite topics. He dived into it with visible relish.

"In ancient times, it is believed, witches and wizards lived with Muggles, were part of the tribe, had their special job and were honoured for it, just like Shamans, Medicine Men or whatever. In return, their tribe kept them fed and everything. In some old rune documents, this is called the Ancient Order. Then in many places, especially in Europe, witches and wizards started to _dominate_ their people. Many tribe leaders and later many Feudal rulers used magic to control their Muggles as well as magical creatures. They used them as slaves, basically, controlling them with the exact spells that today are considered to be Dark Magic. Of course, there was a lot of disagreement throughout history, among wizards for one thing, because some opposed things like will-power controlling magic. They believed in re-establishing the Ancient Order. These can with some justification be considered the spiritual parents of today's League. Others believed witches and wizards had some kind of natural right to rule the world, that they were a superior class _chosen_ for this job. To preserve that right, witches and wizards should not intermarry with Muggles. Here we've got the pure-blood position, upheld by many of the so-called old wizard families whose wealth was basically founded on the exploitation of Muggles – Feudalists, you name it. Salazar Slytherin was an early leader of that position, but You-Know-Who is known to have embraced it, even though, irony of fate, he is said to have had a Muggle father. – Anyway, it is proven that You-Know-Who hated not only Muggles and relished in their murder, but also that he had it in for the League. Even though You-Know-Who's aims during his first rule of terror remain a general mystery, many people believe that they may have included re-establishing the Feudalist rule of pure-blooded wizards over the Muggle world – with him as top dictator, I suppose."

Sirius felt as if his head was swimming and would have liked to ask a question or two, but Mundungus was not to be stopped.

"You see, the positions always seem to be the same, back in medieval times, under You-Know-Who's first rule of terror and, I fear, now. Of course there is a lot of neutral ground in between, which coincides not only with the politics of our contemporary Ministry of Magic but also with what most witches and wizards believe today: Muggles should be left alone, should solve their problems on their own but be relatively unmolested by the needs of the magical public. – Of course, I've hardly ever seen a witch or wizard grow their own food, but that may be another matter. – We make sure that Muggles generally don't even know we exist, but we permit intermarriage and accept Muggle-born witches and wizards into our world, instead of eliminating them, which was the general praxis among the Feudal wizard regime."

Had he misheard that? Sirius partly rose from his chair, forgetting the need to stay in the shadows for a second.

"They _killed_ them?" he shouted. "They killed children for this nonsense?"

Mundungus pulled him back into his chair.

"Calm down, Sirius. Can't believe you're so naïve. I should think all those years in Azkaban had taught you the world is not a nice place where magical children roam for fun!" 

Both wizards settled down into their chairs. Sirius stared down into the cold, milky tea in his cup. He stirred it with his spoon aimlessly. Then he looked up again to find Mundungus doing the same.

"You mean the things happening in our time are not an exception?"

"Nope." Mundungus ran his ink-stained hand through his hair, accidentally undoing what remained of his pony-tail. He shook his head.

 "They say You-Know-Who is the worst and most powerful Dark Wizard of all time, but he surely wasn't the first one and won't be the last. His downfall brought us a time of relative peace, but he is not the cause for this. On his own he could easily be overcome, but as his ideas are rather popular with some, he can draw his true power from a wide pool of supporters. This is all about power, Sirius, as it has always been. Some want to rule, and some think they shouldn't. Those who suffer most are usually the innocent, Muggles, children, you name it. – Think of Feudalism, Sirius. There was the Muggle church, opposed to the wizard regime, many believe because they wanted to rule in their stead. They raised the Muggles against witches and wizards, and to what consequence? They could not harm us, so those who were brutally killed were Muggles. I bet Binns didn't teach you that, did he?"

Sirius shook his head. "How come you know all that, Mundungus?" he asked.

"Why'd you think I studied Ancient Runes? It's all still there, in rotting documents in secret writing, some written by pure-blood fanatics, some by the League, waiting for us to take the time and discover what is really behind all this." Mundungus indicated with his arm as if to include the whole dusty kitchen or maybe even the whole world in his sentence. Sirius suddenly thought of something:

"Are you a member of the League, Mundungus?"

The lips in the round, bespectacled face tensed up; he inhaled deeply through his nose.

"No, I'm not, I'm not even a proper supporter of them. Call me a coward, but I'm a peaceful scholar, not at all the type to blast fire all over the place with my wand. Maybe I forgot to tell you that the League is quite _radical. They do more than just tell witches and wizards politely that as they share one Earth with the Muggles, they should care about problems like pollution, war or poverty, that by withholding their special gifts from Muggles they have to share the blame in causing these things. To state their point, they are said to have blown up mansions, to have lynched alleged Death Eaters and other things. Twenty years ago, there is supposed to have been quite a war between the groups. Aurors were involved in it, too, killing off loads of both sides to get back to peace, and innocent people in the middle of all of this. Nothing of this has ever been proved, of course. Anyway, if you ask me, I support the ideas of the League, but by no means their methods. Couldn't believe that Arabella was one of them, either."_

Sirius remembered the pretty blonde Gryffindor schoolgirl whose mother had protected Harry for such a long time. Not two months before she was murdered, he had talked to her, told the woman she'd become that Voldemort had risen again and that Dumbledore wanted her support in their fight against him. Arabella had been shocked at first, but then promised to come to the meeting to see what she could do. She'd been kind to Sirius, had believed him at once when he told her he had not been the one to betray the Potters. He could not imagine either her or her mother as members of a group that blew up wizard mansions. Neither was it the thing he expected of the parents of two toddlers. But whatever these people had done or might have planned to do, Voldemort or his supporters had killed them brutally, and the Ministry was denying a connection. Oh yes, and he was getting framed for it, that was the punch line, wasn't it? Suddenly he felt dead tired. 

"You know, I'm still pretty shocked by all of this," Mundungus broke out after a few minutes of silence. "I used to know Arabella, used to know her well, if you know what I mean."

"You were lovers," Sirius voiced his realisation.

"Couple of years ago," Mundungus said with hesitation in his voice. "Then she'd grown distant on me, and I never figured out why. If she'd only told me - I mean, now I think her membership in the League may have had something to do with it. Back then I thought she'd found someone else, but didn't press her to tell me, well, you know what it's like."

The problem, or one of the problems, was that Sirius did not know what it was like. It was not like he was burning to tell Mundungus that, but something beyond his control must have betrayed him, because Mundungus then said:

"I'm sorry, that was pretty tactless of me."

Sirius wished Mundungus would just leave it at that to make up for any previous lack of tact, but after gnawing at a stubby fingernail for a while, the round-faced wizard tortured him with a bit of sympathy.

"You never had anyone, Sirius, did you? Not before Azkaban, not after, right?"

Mutely, Sirius shook his head. Suddenly he once more felt young again, but in an altogether uncomfortable way.

"You liked Lily, didn't you?" Mundungus asked very softly.

That was going too far, even in the name of friendship or whatever this was going to be about. "Come off it, we _all liked Lily!" Sirius said rather loudly. Mundungus nodded as if to console him._

It was true, too. Lily had been a girl beyond compare, and there had probably been no boy at Hogwarts who had not noticed. In her fifth year, she had turned every male head, including his. But he'd never envied James his success, at least not to the extent of liking his friend less. He knew Lily and James had made the perfect couple, and did not deceive himself by thinking he'd suit her better. It was just that she'd made him set his standard too high. He had wanted the same thing the two people he cared about most in the world had - perfect happiness, or so it had at least always looked to him. So he'd been picky, unwilling to settle on a girl that was less beautiful, less intelligent, or less kind than Lily. Up to that fateful night that had destroyed not only his life, he'd been confident there was someone out there just for him. After that night, the question had become a minor issue.

Mundungus, his blue, near-sighted eyes thoughtful, had probably by then decided to retrieve a minimal amount of tact, because he changed the subject.

"Any news from Hogwarts, then?"

"Owl post, but no news. Harry's ok, writing funny stories about the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher to cheer me up. Oh, and Snape's got green hair, that's the news of the day, actually. But on a larger scale, nothing. Dumbledore tells me to stay hidden. They are still trying to find out if there's anything funny about the fact that there just _happened to be a wizard with a camera present the minute I found the bodies of Arabella and old Mrs. Figg, someone who may have known where to expect me, and when, and maybe even that I'd be riding a motorbike. But if there's a leak somewhere –" he felt a shudder run up his spine – "it's got to be a leak in Dumbledore's secret order, right? This person would know everything we talked about, and know all our faces."_

Mundungus nodded. "Right. That would mean we're cooked right from the start, I suppose. Each one of us may then have Death Eaters knocking on our doors tomorrow, no matter if we are League or not. But Dumbledore says there is no leak. Let's hope he's right, and whoever sent your picture to the _Daily Prophet_ was there to take it by mere coincidence. I mean, let's hope that because it's all we can do."

Sirius nodded. He wanted to get back to Hogwarts, be there to know what was going on, to protect Harry from further attacks which were quite likely (though he had to admit that Hogwarts was probably the safest place in the world). Most of all, he wished he could do something useful, to do all he could as long as there was still time. The things Mundungus had said made him feel open war with Voldemort and his supporters could break out any day now. Surely they were gathering up their strength now, preparing for attack. Any day might count, and here he was, hiding away in the countryside, biding his time until – what?

Even though he felt a strong urge to leave the house now, rev up the lovely motorbike including its Invisibility Booster, dive into the clouds and fly to Hogwarts right now, he knew he would not. It seemed less than prudent to act against Dumbledore's explicit advice which was almost a command. Stay where you are, Sirius, and keep your head down. He felt bile rising in his throat? but fought it down.

"By the way, Mundungus, think we could do anything at all with these other windows?" he asked.


	6. Ron

6 – Ron 

For their interview with the Ensouling expert, Professor McGonagall had asked Ron and Harry to leave Quidditch practice early for once. Ron did not mind it overly much this time: For one thing, they had just scored a decent victory over Hufflepuff. Celebrations had been rather subdued as a means of showing respect to the late Hufflepuff seeker Cedric Diggory, of course, but a victory was a victory, wasn't it? Another reason why he liked leaving early that night was a lingering feeling of gluttony. To make him gain weight, Fred and George had made force-feeding him their favourite dinner sport. So far he had not become any heavier, but was frequently feeling uncomfortably full during Quidditch practice, always afraid a Bludger or even the Quaffle might hit him in the stomach and cause him to lose his dinner. So when Professor McGonagall fetched them from the field and led them into the Transfiguration classroom that night, he did not complain.

The classroom was empty except for a smallish elderly wizard wearing a blackish robe with an old-fashioned ruffled collar. His head was covered with a cloud of snowy curls framing a face that was decidedly less wrinkled than his knotty hands. Professor McGonagall made proper introductions:

"Mr. Pigmalgion, these are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, the boys we talked about. Harry, Ron, this is Mr. Pigmalgion. He is an Ensouler who has come over from Anglesey to see whether one of you shows an aptitude for his art." 

Mr. Pigmalgion nodded to Harry and Ron in greeting, revealing the cottony crown of his head to them.

"Hello, boys," he said gravely. "I heard they ascribe great deeds to you two."

Ron did not know what to answer, while Harry just gave the Ensouler a wide-eyed stare, then said:

"I don't know whether we did anything great, Mr. Pigmalgion."

"It is good to see you are a modest and well-mannered boy, Mr. Potter. To tell you the truth, I'm here to find out whether you did."

Ron felt a little stupid. It was obvious that Mr. Pigmalgion expected Harry rather than Ron to have the mysterious talent of Ensouling. So did Ron, of course. If he had Ensouled his Dad's car, he'd know, wouldn't he? All he had ever done was fly it. And unlike Harry, who was a natural at Quidditch, a Parselmouth and a former Triwizard Champion – not to mention his repeated defeats of You-Know-Who – Ron had never found any powers in himself except for those he had always known he had.

Mr. Pigmalgion asked quite a few question of Harry as well as of Ron. He wanted to know about their relationship with Quidditch balls and chess figures and asked odd questions about games that were much more a matter of physical or mental skills than a matter of dealing with Ensouled objects. Ron started to wonder whether the old wizard might be a fake. Then Mr. Pigmalgion wanted to see their chessmen. As Professor McGonagall had told them to bring them to the meeting, both could produce them on the spot. The Ensouler opened the neat wooden box where Harry kept his shiny white marble chessmen and took out the queen. Ron had to smile when he looked at the little figure because he knew her so well from the chessboard. Harry's queen had a small silvery sword that was almost longer than she was tall. Whenever she raised it to strike at an opponent, she'd close her little stone eyes and hunch her shoulders, but still hit squarely and with shocking efficiency. She was one of those chess figures who had never really learned to trust Harry and was easily pushed to the verge of mutiny.

Mr. Pigmalgion scrutinised the tiny figure under a magnifying glass, turned her between thumb and forefinger, prodded her face and breathed at her. Ron could tell the queen did not like this and wondered, not for the first time, if chess figures could bite or raise their weapons against a wizard if their patience was really tried.

After a while Mr. Pigmalgion set the little queen aside and asked Ron for his set. Ron kept his chessmen wrapped up in an old woollen hat because he suspected them of hurting each other when confined in a box. The grey flinty chessmen had already been rather battered when he had inherited them from his grandfather, and Ron had done his best to prevent further damage. Still, the king had only half a crown, the queen lacked her nose, and half of the pawns were missing their tiny wooden clubs, which was not much of a problem as their miniscule fists were disastrous on the board. The knights Ron had each wrapped separately in an old sock because they were the worst bullies of the lot. 

Scowling at Ron's chipped set, Mr. Pigmalgion took out the bishop who preferred to walk on black. (The two bishops _looked identical, of course, but Ron knew from experience that it paid to let each of them work on the colour of their choice.) Again, the scrutinising process ensued. The bishop kept unusually still, and Ron was starting to worry if there was something wrong with it when Mr. Pigmalgion set it down on the table._

"Well, Mr. Weasley," the Ensouler addressed him, "it is too early for me to say something definite, but it seems your chessmen think remarkably highly of you. – You have not owned yours for very long, Mr. Potter, have you?"

"Almost four years," Harry had to admit, eyes downcast. Suddenly Ron did not feel very smug anymore. He had always hoped that one day he, not Harry, would be singled out. Now that Mr. Pigmalgion seemed to do just that, he realised he did not like it very much. He'd prefer it if they turned out both to be Ensoulers, learned to relate to Quidditch balls in an exceptional manner, and ended up as joint entrepreneurs producing spectacular Ensouled objects after their retirement from the professional life on the pitch.

"I much desire to see the object of your spectacular Ensouling act myself," Mr. Pigmalgion told the two of them now. "Professor McGonagall has informed me that the vehicle in question can be found near a teacher's building here on the ground. Will you be so kind as to accompany me?"

Together, they crossed the dark windy grounds, half-rounded the lake and finally arrived at Professor Varlerta's soundproof building. Ron had buried his hands deeply in his robes' pockets, wishing fervently that he'd suggested they put on cloaks. He saw the car from afar, standing under an invisible roof on the side of the building. When it heard them coming, it turned on its headlights as if in greeting. Ron stared: His Dad's old Ford Anglia was hardly recognisable. Professor Varlerta had had someone take care of the dents and rusty places and had painted the car black. With its shiny chrome bumper and its new red leather seats, the old vehicle looked almost fancy. From the interior it was softly playing a rock ballad to them. When Harry, Ron and Mr. Pigmalgion approached the car, it used its indicators to show them it was excited to see them. Ron patted its bonnet, sure the car remembered flying to Hogwarts with them and saving the two of them in the Forbidden Forest. It responded with the softest note from its horn. Harry and the old Ensouler kept in the back.

"Mr. Pigmalgion, I think it was Ron that Ensouled the car," Harry said quietly. "Don't you see? It's happy to see him."

"Hi boys," came Professor Varlerta's voice from behind them. Ron saw her standing in the doorway, dressed in her usual Muggle clothes. Mr. Pigmalgion approached her to shake hands, a look of disapproval on his face. Varlerta ignored it.

"Impressive, isn't it?" she asked him, indicating the car with a slight turn of the head.

"Indeed, it is. A fine piece of Ensouling. For what are you planning to use it?" the old Ensouler replied politely if not stiffly.

"Well, I'll have to do some driving around the country in the near future, and I want to take my apprentices with me, so my motorbike would not do too well. Plus, I'm afraid the motorbike can't make it at the moment. Anyways, I've already taken to old Drifter." The car beeped its horn again when she put her hand on the roof, louder this time. 

"Want me to take you for a ride?" Professor Varlerta asked them. In response the car bounced up and down almost imperceptibly. To Ron's disappointment, Mr. Pigmalgion declined.

"I appreciate the offer, but unfortunately I have to keep an appointment later tonight. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, will you accompany me back to the castle?" 

Varlerta shrugged at Mr. Pigmalgion's obvious wish to get away from her, bid them goodnight and returned to her quarters. Mr. Pigmalgion told Harry and Ron they would walk back to the castle. Back inside, he gave each of them a finely crafted wooden pawn. To match their chessmen, Harry got a white pawn, while Ron's was black. The pawn felt alien in Ron's fingers. Turning it around in his hand, Ron realised that it was a dead thing, a total blank.

"It certainly appears as if Mr. Weasley is the Ensouler around here," Mr. Pigmalgion told them. "However, I am not altogether sure and would like to know more about both of you. To test your skills at Ensouling, please practice on these pawns exactly the way I tell you. They are prepared for Ensouling, but as yet devoid of will or life. It also takes use to shape them. These two have never been on a chessboard before. All the life and all the skill they may acquire they will get from you. Please keep them with your chess sets and play with them at least three times a week. To make sure my little experiment is carried out correctly, only handle your own test pawn, please. Do not even touch each other's if you can't help it. In a month I will return to Hogwarts and would like to see how you two did at Ensouling them."

After politely biding them farewell, Mr. Pigmalgion departed. Ron and Harry looked at each other, then at their wooden test pawns.

"There's no way I can keep it with the other chessmen," Ron mused. "The others will take it apart."

Harry regarded the small wooden figures with his usual dreamy green gaze. "You think so? Why should they?"

"Well, it's an intruder, one to take someone else's place. The others have known each other for more than a hundred years and still argue, but a new pawn... what's more, a _wooden_ pawn ... no way it's even going to last until it knows the rules of the game, I think."

"Well, tell them off before they get a chance to do it," Harry said jokingly. "Turn all Snapey on them." 

Ron set up his chessmen in the usual two orderly rows and put the black wooden pawn before them. Assuming a pompous mock-sermon tone, he told them:

"Gentlemen, Lady, may I have your attention for a minute. Before you, you see one who has come from far away to learn your noble skills. Please welcome him into your rows temporarily, assist him in his training whenever you can and do not shame me by harming him. For, as you see, he is but a gentle character, feeble in will and of a delicate making. Any of you whom I catch nicking or scratching your guest will be washed down the toilet in disgrace as a punishment." 

Harry grinned as Ron stuffed the chess figures back into hat and socks. As an afterthought, he wrapped the wooden pawn in his not wholly clean handkerchief. Harry did not seem to worry so much about the well-being of his test pawn, but just stuffed it into the box with his white marble chessmen.

"It would be nice to Ensoul stuff," Harry said as they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower together. "Just imagine – making our own Quidditch balls. 'Potter's and Weasley's, the meanest Bludgers ever!'"

"Couldn't use them anyway," Ron reminded him. "Remember that court case that the Chuddley Cannons lost in the sixties about the Seeker who had Ensouled the Snitch used at a World Cup game? They said the ball wasn't impartial, declared the game invalid and sued the Seekers ears off."

"Yeah, that's right. Too bad though," Harry said. Ron felt the figures wriggle around in the woolly hat he was holding in his hands and told them to lay it off. Just then Snape came around the corner, staring madly at them through strands of his poisonously green hair. Obviously he could not think of anything to tell them off for, so he only gave them the Evil Eye. Harry and Ron fought to keep their faces straight. 

They had been among the first to notice the change in the Potion Master's hair colour. A few days ago, they had found Snape's dungeon dimmer than ever, almost too dark to properly brew potions in it. When Milicent Bulstrode had complained about that, Snape had told the class that the potions they were brewing were photo-sensitive, which had sounded like a satisfying explanation at first. But when the Potion Master had come over to their cauldrons to harrow them about their lax stirring habits – he probably missed having Neville in his class and was desperate for substitute whipping boys, Ron thought – they had discovered that Snape's hair shimmered 'as a freshly pickled toad.' Ron was still glad he had remembered that line as it was such a wonderful way of getting Harry upset, or Ginny, for that matter. 

Green-haired Professor Snape had soon become a favourite by-word in Gryffindor Tower. Lee Jordan had scored the spectacular hit by putting Potion Spoiler in one of Professor Snape's privately boiling cauldrons. When he revealed his success to the common room public, he had not only won the prize set aside for this by Fred and George, but had immediately become the hero of the Gryffindors. After passing the Fat Lady, Ron and Harry could see him sitting on an armchair like on a throne, Fred and George at his side, around him younger admirers. 

"It's not only the outrageous colour," Lee condescended to tell the girls and boys surrounding him. "It's also a lasting pleasure to know that our ugly git of a Potions Master is actually using hair potions!" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Professor Varlerta showed quite an interest in Ron's and Harry's meeting with Mr. Pigmalgion. They were early for her class the next day because an unexpected shortcut had opened up in the castle's confusing and shifting system of halls and stairways. When the teacher saw them, she came over and asked them what the old Ensouler had said to them and whether he had found out if both or any of them was an Ensouler.

"He thinks Ron Ensouled the car," Harry answered her. "It greeted him last night, do you remember? Also Ron gets along better with his chessmen."

Assessing Ron with her eyes, Varlerta asked him: "What do you think yourself? Do you know how you did it?"

Ron shook his head mutely. 

"What have you two got in your wands?" she continued her questioning. Ron and Harry exchanged quick glances. What did that have to do with anything? Turning back to the teacher, Ron gave her a questioning look. Other Gryffindor fifth years started dropping in. Varlerta glanced at her wrist-watch. "I might as well start the lesson," she told them.

When everybody had settled down at their desks, Professor Varlerta told them why she was interested in her students' wands. 

"Your wands' cores tend to have an influence on how you relate to things. Or maybe it's the other way around: Wands choose witches or wizards for their personality, for their way of dealing with the world. Of course once more I am vastly simplifying. There is an infinite variety of wands, and human personalities are infinitely complex. We do not know exactly what aspect in a wand interacts with what aspects of a personality. That would be scary, too, if you could know a person inside out just by studying his wand! Also, wand-makers usually keep as many of their secrets as they possibly can. But if we come to the field of supporting magic with music and Coaxing, we know a few things about how a wand relates to the way a witch or wizard relates to objects.

"Of course, you shouldn't take the things I tell you as absolute truth, especially when it comes to difficulties I will be predicting for you. Whenever anybody tells you there's something you can't do and you believe otherwise, do not take their word for it at any rate. Whatever I'm telling you here should be taken as a possible explanation for your future experiences with your wands, but never as a discouragement.

"But now let's get to the wands. First of all, is there anyone here with a foreign wand, a non-Olivander-production? A Veela hair, a griffin's talon? – No? Well, what a relief. That would have really complicated matters. So how about unicorn hairs? How many have we got here?"

Ron noticed that not only he but also half of the small group of Gryffindors raised their hands – Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and Parvati Patil.

"Just the usual picture," she commented. "Most wands manufactured in Britain contain hair from unicorn tails, because that's the core that relates to the majority of us. They are good for influencing the world with music, too. Most of you will have a decent feeling for rhythm and timing. Learning to Coax should come easy to you, and what I've seen of you in class proves the old wand lore to be true once more. Generally speaking, you four magically relate to objects in a subtle and relatively easy way, a friendly way, I should almost say. However, like all wand cores, the unicorn hair has its specific flaw: You are dominated easily. You could say that a wand provides you with the means of getting strength from your surroundings. This added strength helps you Shield yourself against undue exterior influences, for example from another witch or wizard. You see, without added strengthening, you may be in special danger.

"I'm not surprised to see Ronald Weasley is a unicorn hair type, by the way. For one thing, as far as I heard from your elder brothers, it is a family tradition. For another, Mr. Pigmalgion is presently testing whether Ron is skilled in Ensouling, and I've never heard of an Ensouler who had something else in his or her wand."

All heads turned to Ron. Suddenly he had the feeling they expected something of him now. He would have liked to Ensoul a car on the spot to prove himself, or have Professor Varlerta's battered old double bass do a tap dance for demonstration, but had no idea how to bring such a thing about. Even Hermione's eyes rested on Ron with a mixture of admiration and scepticism. Ron felt his throat close up; blood rose into his cheeks. He had never experienced something like that before. If everybody would only stop looking at him now, would stop expecting him to perform a miracle for them, he would feel so much better. After a few agonising moments, he heard Professor Varlerta ask:

"So what about Phoenix feathers? How many of them have we got here?"

Two hands shot up: Harry's and Hermione's. Ron saw that they looked at another and grinned. Like him they had probably never given a thought to their friends' wand cores before. Now he wished he had a Phoenix feather in his wand as well. It seemed so much more attractive to be singled out with his friends than to be singled out alone. Varlerta approached them so she stood between Harry's and Hermione's desks, looking down again. She spoke to them with a low voice that somehow made Ron feel uncomfortable.

"'The wand that holds a Phoenix feather is a master's wand, a warrior's wand, a commander's wand.' That's what the old books of wand lore say. It may be a bit of an exaggeration, but there is some truth in it. Relatively few people are chosen by a Phoenix wand. Many of them excel in will power; they prove to be rather – you could call it stubborn and self-assured, or call it 'leader types' or however you want to phrase it. 

"The Phoenix wand often chooses very powerful witches and wizards. They tend to do well with conventional magic, that means they have a knack of ordering things around – or other people, for that matter. Most don't ever really bother with Coaxing or music, though I'm not saying they can't do it. The traditional danger that is said to come with a Phoenix wand is the blindness of those who won't see. The books of lore warn you as wielders of wands containing Phoenix feathers not to rely on yourselves alone, neither on your strength, nor on your judgement. Even if you have people willing to obey you, do not ignore their advice. Because the strength that often comes with a Phoenix wand has led some witches and wizards into the abyss of Darkness."

She stood before Harry now, holding his gaze. Ron found she did not look overly kind just then. He saw Harry grow pale, saw his friend clutch his wand until his knuckles went white. After a moment, Varlerta's face softened. 

"Just remember it is always a matter of choice," she said, a light in her eyes. Then she turned to Lavender Brown sitting at the other end of the room.

"Your wand will be containing the heartstrings of dragons then, just like Neville's," she stated. Frowning slightly, Lavender nodded, then cast an uncertain glance at the round-faced boy sitting two desks away. Ron thought he knew why Lavender looked a bit apprehensive. Professor Varlerta's next words probably mirrored exactly the thing the girl was starting to fear.

"The heartstring of a dragon is a very powerful, very sensitive, and slightly unreliable core. Ancient wand lore tells us of several attempts to abandon it altogether, but there are witches and wizards for whom nothing else will work. The wand containing a dragon's heartstring is often the wand of chaos, they say."

Obviously Lavender did not like what she was hearing. She eyed the wand in her hand as if it was an alien object. Ron could see her point. Neville was a nice guy, almost a close friend, but the thought of actually _being Neville, or being very much like him, was appalling, he had to admit. The wand of chaos... not a very encouraging thought, at any rate. _

"Don't be put off by what I'm saying," Varlerta said to Lavender, ignoring Neville altogether. Her apprentice did not seem to mind this, however, but looked almost at ease. He had probably heard these things before and could now patiently watch Varlerta comfort his distressed classmate.

"Do you do much uncontrollable magic?" she asked Lavender. The girl mutely shook her head.

"How about as a child? Before you came to Hogwarts? Did you work a lot of unknown spells? Do magic mischief?" 

Lavender blushed, then nodded. "But I stopped," she defended herself. Varlerta lowered and raised her eyelids, simulating a nod.

"You learned to control yourself, didn't you? – Well, discipline is a fine thing, but too much of it does more harm than good. The flaw of a dragon's heartstring is often its special merit, too. Many of its wielders find that while systematic learning is not exactly their cup of tea, over time the uncontrollable ways of their magic work to their advantage. As one very poetic lore mistress once wrote, such witches and wizards have to 'find the hidden tune in their hearts but accept it obeys to no laws but its own.'"

Lavender's brows were positively contracting now. Obviously she was trying to figure out whether these words were a compliment or rather an insult. 

"Oh, and some of them turn out to be Seers and the like," Varlerta said in a far more casual manner, which caused Lavender's mood to lift visibly. Parvati looked at her friend with a trace of envy, then whispered something in her ear. Lavender nodded vigorously and smiled.

"You all may yet find that all of these things work for you," Varlerta addressed the whole of the class again. "You may acquire great skills at commanding objects and Coaxing objects at the same time. There have been cases as unlikely as Ensoulers who were Seers at the same time, or even Duel champions with musical skills. However, keep in mind what I said about your wands and watch yourself closely when doing magic. Write your observation down in your magic log. You may find out things about yourself that will help you improve your skills."

Ron had to admit that he had stopped keeping his magic log after less than a week. It was too much of a bother. Whenever Professor Varlerta had asked the class questions regarding their progress, he had made up things as he was used to in Divination, and so did Harry, while Hermione was keeping her log with great accuracy. But as he noticed the questions Varlerta asked them about it were getting increasingly complex, he realised he might be forced to spend some time on his magic log soon.

"Now we will finally come around to enhancing your Shielding with means of music," Varlerta told the class. "Will you please pair up with someone whose wand has the same core as yours? Ron, I want you with Parvati, while Dean Thomas and –"

She suddenly paled and swayed a little. Ron had felt it too. It was as if something icy crept through his body, draining him of warmth, of strength and of something else. Someone screamed out behind him. Lavender suddenly started crying, while Neville hugged himself rather fiercely and stared at their teacher, eyes open wide. Ron saw Harry's hand move up to the scar on his forehead. That was the moment when he realised whatever was going on was something serious.

"Everybody come here and stand right beside me. Neville, to my left. I need you to support me like I taught you. Hurry up, kids!" Varlerta's voice was steely now. Everybody jumped up from their chairs and ran to the front of the class. When they all stood close to her, Varlerta raised her arms, wand in her right hand, and shouted at the top of her voice: "_Dermasecunda!"_

So that's what a Shield is all about, Ron thought as the closely knit group made their way down to the Great Hall, surrounded by a silvery shimmer Varlerta and Neville seemed to be upholding by their soft, melodious humming. Their wands could be seen vibrating as if in accompaniment. Ron noticed that the cold, draining feeling had stopped. Everybody looked a bit scared, but none of his classmates seemed on the verge of panic or despair anymore.

In the Entrance Hall, they met Snape. The Potions Master stared at the group for a second, then broke into a truly evil grin. He took out his wand and poked the silvery shimmer which dissolved into nothing immediately. "Practising a bit of defence, _Professor_ Varlerta?" he asked, sounding rather derisive.

"Get them to the hall for me. I've got to see who else has been attacked. Where's Dumbledore?" Varlerta blurted at him, slightly out of breath. Snape, however, seemed to be completely at ease, even close to a thin-lipped smile.

"Are we perhaps a tiny little bit over-excited, Professor?" he said with a definite sneer, shaking back his longish hair which had assumed a slightly purple shimmer.

"This is no laughing matter! Somebody's working Icy Fingers in this castle, and you should know what that means!" Varlerta gestured with her hands as if to get her point across.

"I've felt no Icy Fingers," the Potions Master replied with a scowl, crossing his black-sleeved arms across his chest. Typically Snape, Ron thought. If he did not feel it, it means it didn't happen.

"That's because they were specifically worked to affect Professor Varlerta's classroom only! However, the security spells say that it has stopped five minutes ago." All heads turned to the top of the stairs where Dumbledore stood, his voice thundering down on them. Looking over his half-moon spectacles, the ancient headmaster stared at Snape until the teacher lowered his gaze. Then he turned to Varlerta.

"It is good to know that you know what to do in an emergency – make sure your class is safe and then worry about anybody else. However you should know that the protection spells of this castle can tell you the nature and location of each possible attack if you know how to read them."

"How can you know they won't start again in a minute, though?" Varlerta asked, clutching her wand. "Icy Fingers is a serious threat to all of us. I believe we should take measures to protect ourselves immediately."

"This is not the real thing," Dumbledore told her. "It is not as strong as attacks we've had here before, and there can't have been more than two wizards involved, considering its lack of force. However, I agree with you that we should take measures as this may have been some kind of test. Minerva is currently getting ready to search the grounds, though I believe the culprits have fled. Flitwick and Quibster are with her. I would have asked you, too, Severus," he told Snape, who looked rather angry, "but I could not find you at that moment, and I'm sure they will manage."

"You should show me how to work the security spells as soon as possible," Varlerta said looking up at Dumbledore. "I'm glad to hear nobody else seems to be in danger. We need to talk this over, though, and try to further enhance the castle's security."

"Come to my office tonight, both of you," Dumbledore told the two teachers. "But now you should maybe resume your classes." With these words, he turned on his heels and left.

"Well, I'll see you tonight, then," Varlerta said to Snape. "By the way, I think you've got mood hair." 

"Pardon me?" he spat at her.

"Mood hair. Never heard of it? Was the big thing in New York City two or three years ago. You know, like Muggles had mood rings, only better of course." Ron thought there was a trace of mischief in Varlerta's eyes.

"No, I don't know mood rings," Snape said with an angry tremor in his voice.

"Oh, you know, the colour is supposed to show people how you are feeling. Red is for happy, green is for unhappy, that kind of thing. It was really _en vogue_ some time ago. Loads of people had it. The only problem was..."

 "_Yes?" Professor Snape's voice cut through the air like a knife. Ron noticed his hair was greener than ever and his bony fingers were restlessly clenching and unclenching. Like all the Gryffindor fifth years, Ron was trying hard not to stare at the Potions Master. They all probably knew that Snape hated to have them witness this conversation and that their lives depended on their ability to keep a straight face now. _

"... well, they never really figured out the antidote. Loads of fashionable witches and wizards shave their heads now because they can't bear it anymore. You shouldn't do that, though. I rather like it, as a matter of fact," Varlerta assured him. 

"You mean it doesn't grow out?" Snape screamed. He looked on the verge of madness now. When he took a step towards her, his body language more than just suggested a threat. Varlerta took half a step backwards, but looked mostly unruffled by his outbreak.

"If anybody is able to find the antidote, that's you," she told him. "I'm sure you'll do fine. When you find it, ship some to the States if you want to make some money.  Anyways –" turning to her class, "I think we should get back to practice, kids." 


	7. Neville

7 – Neville 

Neville carefully closed the zipper of his borrowed jeans. Dean's warning had filled him with a vague apprehension. He had never worn such a piece of clothing before, because the dress code of his Grandma was no less strict than the one at Hogwarts. Wizards wore robes, Muggles wore trousers, she'd say. Now here he was wearing an ill-fitting sweatshirt of Harry and the strange, tight jeans of Dean Thomas.

"We're going out to a Muggle town, so you'd better look like Muggles," Professor Varlerta had told them. Neville tried to pull the tight sleeves of Seamus' denim jacket over the baggy sweatshirt sleeves, wondering how in the world Muggles ever managed if they knew neither magic nor ordinary clothes. Then he laced up his shoes – they were his own, at least – pocketed his wand and his recorder and went to the Common Room. Ginny was already waiting for him, looking as if she was born in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers, the only odd-looking thing about her the smaller shaman drum strapped to her back.

After the 'Icy Fingers' incident, Professor Varlerta had decided they were not to go anywhere without taking along their instruments. Ginny was constantly complaining about it; Neville was glad that his recorder was so small and light. But today he was going to get another instrument, something more powerful than a recorder, Varlerta had said. That's why she was taking her two apprentices to a Muggle music shop.

When the two trainees knocked on the door of Varlerta's building, the teacher came out to the car straight away. She was wearing black denims, a green jumper and a black leather jacket. Out of one of its many pockets she produced a small glass flask and a silver spoon. She let two drops of a bluish potion fall on the spoon, put it into her mouth and then magically cleaned the spoon.

"I don't really like it if I can't see myself, so I take this every time I use the Invisibility Booster. If you want some, too, you can have it."

Both Ginny and Neville asked for the potion and got two drops each; then the teacher got behind the wheel, Ginny sat down next to her and Neville let himself fall on the backseat. The car was already vibrating with impatience. Varlerta gave the steering wheel a pat, pushed the tiny silver button on the dashboard, and off they went into the air.

The view was breathtaking. Neville, to whom sitting on a shaky broomstick was nothing short of a punishment, enjoyed flying now from the relative safety of Drifter's backseat. The towers and turrets of Hogwarts were already starting to grow smaller and smaller among the autumn landscape of red and yellow. The lake looked like a blue-grey puddle; Neville could see the fang arms of the Giant Squid rippling its surface. On the other side of the castle, the Quidditch teams were practising. Most of the pitch was taken up by the team in red and gold, while the Slytherin team, made up almost totally of newcomers as so many of the old team had left the school, were more or less pushed to the edge of the field. Neville could see Hagrid harvesting giant pumpkins, while – he squinted to see the tiny figures – Professor Sprout was making caretaker Filch clean the outside of the greenhouses. 

Ginny seemed to be unimpressed by the view and rather started to go through the box that sat in a compartment right before her. Neville looked over her shoulder. The box held CDs, shiny discs that had music on them, as he had recently learned. Some of Varlerta's CDs looked like they were something for children: One of the covers showed the upper body of a rather dumb-looking angel protruding from a flying star, while another showed the picture of a red-haired little girl playing away happily at a piano, accompanied by a pixy with a mandolin. 

"I don't think so, Ginny," Varlerta said to her. "Molly would probably soap my mouth if I played music containing bad words to her daughter. – So would Agatha, come to think of it," she added, looking over her shoulder at Neville.

The CD covers looked odd indeed: One showed a black-haired woman wearing make-up and a red satin dress who was lying in shallow water as if she had drowned. On the back of another there was a suckling boar supported on forks, the word 'undertow' shaved into its fur. Varlerta rejected a CD with a cover displaying a landscape coloured by sunset, termed 'Welcome to Sky Valley' and another showing a man's head bent back as if in pain, fittingly termed 'The Bends'.

"We'll go for nice mainstream for now, I think," she said and selected a CD of a female singer. Ginny tapped her foot with the guitar riffs of the first song while Neville tried to figure out why the singer was so angry.

After a while of flying above the clouds, Varlerta dipped down a bit and turned down the volume of the CD player. 

"See there, the stone circle?" she said and pointed at the landscape. Indeed, in the middle of a deserted moor here and there spotted with white sheep stood a small stone circle. Neville and Ginny made agreeing noises. Varlerta flew up into the clouds again as they had left the circle behind them. She was navigating mainly by using a small compass she had installed next to the steering wheel.

"We're going there to experiment, next week or so," Varlerta told her trainees. "I believe the stone circles to be spots of special power that can be used for Strengthening. They are one of the main reasons that I came back to Britain, actually." Then she turned the music back up again, singing along at times with her pleasant, though by no means remarkable voice. Neville was a bit embarrassed by this, because in his family, proper adults did not sing, but of course he did not tell her.

When Varlerta dipped down once more, she landed the car neatly on a deserted little road right off the main road. Then she pushed the button, which meant, Neville supposed, that they were visible to everybody else again. They drove on the ground now and soon turned into the main road on which they would enter the Muggle town the Muggle way, as Varlerta had termed it. Drifter did not seem to like this; Varlerta constantly had to tell it to keep its wheels on the ground. Obviously the teacher was in the best of moods, humming along softly with a song in which the singer claimed she was not the doctor.

The Muggle town was noisy and dirty, Neville thought. He had hardly ever seen anything of towns besides Diagon Alley and King's Cross station, which was nothing like these narrow streets lined with strange shops, laundromats, pubs and restaurants. There were Muggles everywhere, walking along the pavements, looking into shop windows, mothers pushing prams, children riding bikes. The streets were jammed with cars, all of them driven by Muggles. There was a constant horn-beeping and engine-roaring around them. Neville also noticed that many drivers seemed to shake their fists at Varlerta or make worse gestures as she speedily wormed Drifter through the packed streets. Finally the car jumped into a parking spot which obviously annoyed an elderly man driving a fancy Bentley. Varlerta turned off the music and told the car not to trust any strangers, then turned to Ginny and Neville. 

"Remember, you are Muggles here. Leave your instruments in the car and your wands in your pockets. Do not talk about spells, or magic, or knuts, or anything, let alone do any magic. And please don't call the people in the shop Muggles, it will only confuse them. If there's something you do not understand, ask me quietly instead of alerting the whole shop. 

"I want you to choose instruments. That goes especially for you, Neville, but you should also have a look around, Ginny. Maybe we can solve your problem here, which would be great, because no one sells magical instruments in the whole of Britain anymore. Choose what you like and don't worry about the money – within reason, I mean. But keep in mind that many of these instruments require proper training and a lot of practising. I may not be able to teach you as I've never played a proper brass or wind instrument. We might even have to get you a Muggle teacher. Well, let's go in now."

The music shop consisted of several large rooms filled with more musical instruments than Neville had ever seen. Varlerta approached the shop assistants, idly standing around in a corner and, assuming her broadest American accent, briskly told them to help her niece and nephew choose nice instruments, decent ones, not the cheap stuff. The shop assistants looked quite eager after that. The woman went off with Ginny, while the man asked Neville what he wanted. Varlerta told them she'd be gone for half an hour and left the shop.

The man wanted to get Neville interested in pianos, but Neville knew one thing: He wanted an instrument that resonated by means of his voice, a brass or wind instrument.

"A trumpet is always a nice instrument for a young man," the assistant told him, "or maybe a trombone or a flugelhorn?" He went away several times to fetch the instruments that gave off a brassy glow and told Neville what to do with his mouth. Then he fetched a colleague of his who could actually show him. Neville tried to get a note out of the trumpet and the trombone, but couldn't. The assistants told him not to worry as this was normal in the beginning, but then showed Neville a clarinet and saxophones of different sizes. Neville rather liked the tone of the soprano sax but could not make any of these instruments emit any kind of music either. Again, the assistants assured him that it wasn't easy for beginners, but to Neville none of these instruments felt quite right. 

"I played a recorder up to now," he told them shyly. "Don't you have anything that's more like it? Something like a flute?"

"You don't want to play the flute." One of the assistants frowned at him. "It's, you know, a bit of a girls' instrument. The boys at school would laugh at you. You should really go for the saxophone."

"Can I just try?" Neville asked, and of course he could. The moment the shop assistant had assembled the long, silver traverse flute, he knew he had been right to insist. The flute felt cool in his hands; he could see his tiny reflection in its silver surface. The assistants told him where to put his fingers and how to blow it, and when Neville tried, the flute rewarded him with a clear, resonating note. The shop assistants both looked impressed.

"That's not bad at all, boy," one of them said. "Maybe you can be a second Ian Anderson." They showed him about a dozen other traverse flutes and Neville tried them all but stuck with the first instrument he had played.

Meanwhile Varlerta had returned, carrying a small plastic bag from a CD store and a stack of mail. They were all Muggle envelopes addressed to her and with American stamps on them, one of them fairly large. Ginny was with her, looking a bit defiant; obviously she had not chosen an instrument for herself. "I wanted to get my own drum set, but she wouldn't hear of it," she told Neville.

Varlerta bought several packets of guitar strings, a few pairs of drumsticks and a _Teach Yourself to Play __Flute-book. She paid for them and for Neville's flute with quite a bit of strange, papery Muggle money, put the strings and sticks into her large coat pocket and handed the plastic bag with flute and book to Neville. The female shop assistant who had gone off with Ginny looked at her reproachfully, but Varlerta ignored it and took her two assistants back out where Drifter was waiting for them. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they were flying home while dusk was falling, listening to strange rock sounds, Neville found himself wishing they would never arrive. Dark grey or ink-blue clouds sped past them; in the very west, a hint of purple remained as a memory of the sunset. Below them, a million lights the size of pinpoints told a glittering tale of people living there, oblivious to the magical vehicle gliding through the sky. Coming from the four strange Muggle speakers the music flooded through him like the soundtrack of a dream. The heavy, droning guitars and even the distorted, passionate vocals of the male singer, the simple flow of the music melted into his visual experience. Remotely, he noticed that Varlerta had abolished her 'No-music-with-swearwords'- policy only too obviously. Everything around him was becoming unreal, the strange, noisy Muggle world behind them and the world before them, a world he was used to but did not quite feel at home in. All there would ever be now were he, Ginny and the teacher at the steering wheel. 

As much as he fancied his little illusion, he found it impossible to uphold it, especially as he noticed that Varlerta frequently consulted her small silver wristwatch and was obviously keeping her foot on the accelerator. All too soon, just when the singer howled 'Don't try to take me away, like I can't live without you' in a rather non-romantic tone, the familiar towers of Hogwarts could be made out as black silhouettes against the dark blue sky. Within a couple of minutes, they landed neatly on the lawn in front of Varlerta's building.

"Hop along to the castle, you two," Varlerta told them. "I've got plans for tonight and I'm already a bit late."

"Why, what are you doing?" Ginny asked audaciously. 

"I'm going out with a man, of course," the teacher replied tartly, then corrected herself. "Actually, I'm just taking out a friend for a drink on his birthday."

"But I want to practice," Ginny complained. "You _said_ I could play on your drum set. I'm sure Neville wants to try out his flute, too. Can't we stay here while you are out?"

Neville felt obliged to nod and make agreeing noises to that. Of course, he could play his new flute in Gryffindor Tower as well, but he did not feel very confident about it. He'd much prefer the relative isolation of the soundproof building.

"Alright, alright, you two. Get inside and enjoy yourself." Varlerta slammed the car door and went to unlock the door of her building. Neville and Ginny followed her into the main room, her 'music laboratory' as they had started to call it.

"Just make sure you do not miss your curfew, or if you do and get into trouble for it, don't you dare blame it on me." With these words she disappeared into what Neville guessed must be her private quarters.

Ginny went to the drum set at once, sat down, retrieved the sticks and broke out into a sudden burst of noise. Neville sat down on the squashy sofa standing in the far corner of the room and took the case of his new flute out of the vile plastic bag that came from the Muggle music shop. The case was plastic, too, he noticed, and its blue velvet lining felt artificial as well. But the instrument inside... well, that was the real thing. He took out the pieces of the silver flute, assembled them and turned the shiny instrument in his hands.

Right next to him the door of Varlerta's private quarters opened and the teacher emerged, dressed in black witches robes once more. Neville thought these robes were somehow different from the ones teachers usually wore; it was shiny and elegantly cut. Varlerta's high-heeled boots of red dragon hide were hard to miss indeed. Over her arm she carried her cloak.

"Well, enjoy yourselves, kids, and don't roam the grounds after dark. When you leave say 'Rock 'n Roll High School', that locks the door. If you are still here when I return, you'll be in trouble." And with a slight wave of her hand she was gone.

Neville felt a strong urge to try out the flute on his own, if only because Ginny was making such a tremendous amount of noise again. He tried the door of the adjoining room, which seemed like an ink-filled cave behind its large glass pane. It was unlocked. When Neville made the magic torches light up, he found the room held a couch and a table supporting a large flat device with innumerable buttons and strange plastic levers. On the shelves lining the walls he saw speakers, a CD-player and many more things that he would not have been able to name a few weeks ago. Varlerta's electric guitar with its glimmering mother-of-pearl decoration, which she often kept in this room, stood outside on a stand in front of the amplifier, however. 

After closing the door, Neville felt disappointed because it hardly closed out any of the noise Ginny was making on the drum set. He almost turned to leave and find another silent place when he saw a lever near the door that said 'Sound Block.' After pushing it, the room fell into almost complete silence. Satisfied, Neville settled down on the sofa and took the _Teach Yourself to Play Flute_-book out of the plastic bag. He scanned through it, looking at pictures of flute players and at drawings showing the reader lip and finger placement. Also there were a lot of the weird little music notes Varlerta had shown him. Neville frowned. They did not make sense to him. After trying to figure out how to put these dots into music for a while, and what to do with the silver flute in his hand, he put the book away and put the flute to his lips. In the shop it had seemed so easy. He had just blown into it, used his fingers to close some of the keys, and music had come out of it. Why not try that again?

He played for a while, though unsatisfied with the tone he was producing on the instrument as well as with not knowing where to put his finger to produce which sound. Maybe Varlerta was right, that it was one of those instruments you had to really learn and practice. But he did not want to wait until someone provided him with a Muggle music teacher. Maybe he should try to make sense out of the black dots after all. With the recorder, it had been relatively easy: Add a finger, and out came a lower note, or pretty much so. Did the traverse flute work the same?

Finally, Neville took his old recorder out of his robes' pocket. It was wrapped into a crumpled piece of parchment on which Varlerta had written down which note had which name and how to play it on the recorder. There were also a few simple melodies notated on the sheet. Varlerta had said they might be helpful for doing magic or for adding Strength to someone else's spell, for example if someone hit their class with an evil curse again. He could play them by now, more from his memory than from the notes, though when he found out he had forgotten one of them, he managed to reconstruct it with help of the half-cryptic writing. After playing the tunes on the recorder, Neville took out his flute, trying to find out what he had to do with it to play the same tunes. 

It was a slow, note-to-note process, but after a while, Neville thought he had made his way through two of the tunes on the flute pretty well. He stretched, then rubbed his upper lip. It hurt a bit. Suddenly there was a rap on the door.

"Come in," he said. Ginny opened the door and sat down on the edge of the sofa, leaving the door open.

"How is it going?" she asked. "Can you play on it yet?"

"A little," Neville said evasively, but when she implored him, he demonstrated his success.

"They are to support a spell, or a Shielding. Varlerta wrote them down for me."

"We should try to do something with that," Ginny said enthusiastically. "Like, I try to Coax something and you support me with these tunes, and we'll see if I do any better then."

"Shouldn't we go back?" Neville asked. "We should probably be in bed by now. She said if we get into trouble we are to blame ourselves, and she'll be angry if she gets back and we are still here."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Neville," Ginny chided. "Didn't you hear her? She's got a fancy date. She won't be back for ages. Let's just try it a little, just five minutes or so, then we can get back to the castle."

Neville considered. He hated to get into trouble, and he felt he was far from ready to do magic on the flute he had touched for the very first time that day. But it was hard to say no to Ginny's pleading words and the joy in her eyes. Just when he was about to agree, they heard the noise of Varlerta's key in the lock. 

"_Noxos!" whispered Ginny, pointing her wand in the general direction of the outer room. Immediately, all the magic lights in both rooms went out. Pitch black darkness surrounded them. Ginny closed the door of the small room. Neville and she cowered down into the far corner, able to observe the larger room through the glass pane when the magic lamps were re-lighted a second later. Neville started when he saw that the person entering with Varlerta was Professor Snape. Dressed in flowing black robes accentuating his night-blue hair, his bat-like figure filled the hodgepodge 'music laboratory' with a menacing presence. _

The two teachers obviously were wrapped up in an animated conversation. Torn between curiosity and fear, Neville sneaked to the lever near the door and undid the Sound Block. Now Ginny and he could overhear what they said.

"Sorry about the mess," Varlerta's pleasant tone was lined with a trace of irony. "It's of course entirely the kids' fault. They've been practising here all night, throwing stuff all over the place, I suppose. I always keep my things in perfect order, as you know." This, of course, was a blatant lie, but Neville suspected not only that Professor Snape knew that, but also that Varlerta knew that he knew.

"You are too permissive with your students," he told her in a condescending voice. "Especially your – er – _assistants_." His tone stated clearly that he would have found a different, less kind name for Ginny and Neville. "I appreciate your sympathetic concern for the underdog, but you are clearly taking things too far. Especially that Neville Longbottom. It's nice of you to feel sorry for him, but you have to admit that never in Hogwart's long history has it harboured a student less talented than him." 

Neville felt hatred overwhelm him. Right then, he would have liked to take his flute and play Professor Snape to death, if such a thing was possible. Professor Varlerta was one of the few teachers with whom he felt comfortable. If he made a mistake, which happened rather frequently, she showed him how to put it right, but also told him not to worry about it because, as she said, mistakes were part of every decent learning process. And she never compared him with anyone, neither with his classmates nor with Ginny. Now Professor Snape would make her see 'Neville the Fool' through his eyes, he feared. However, Varlerta seemed to be rather amused.

"Oh, you're at it again, aren't you? Well, please kindly permit me to see for myself whether or not he will accidentally tear down this building and get all of us killed." 

"You don't trust me, then?" Professor Snape raised his left eyebrow. Neville was not quite sure whether or not he really was angry with her. If Professor Snape had raised an eyebrow at him in class, usually terrible things had followed. However, it might be different with Varlerta, as she was also a teacher. She seemed to think the same, because she laughed.

"Oh, Verus! I'd trust you with my life without thinking twice about it, and with everybody else's if I really had to, but don't ask me to take your word for something which sounds just like a matter of opinion to me."

This seemed not to go down to well with Professor Snape, but when Varlerta motioned for him to sit down on one of the sofas, he swept a confusion of cables off it and sat. He was now facing the glass pane with the two students behind them who hoped they were invisible in the darkness. Neville heard Ginny hold her breath next to him; he tried to crawl deeper into the dark corner. However, Professor Snape did not even look into their direction but surveyed the large 'music laboratory', the instruments hanging on the wall or resting against amplifiers, the open boxes of screws, wires and small colourful plastic beads that somehow had to do with electricity.

A minute later, Varlerta returned from her private quarters with two goblets and a bottle of wine. She sat down next to Professor Snape, then made a face and got up again because she had sat on a screwdriver. After removing it, she magicked the cork out of the bottle and poured. The grim Potions Master accepted a goblet from her hands. She turned her face to him as if to utter something in the way of 'Cheers', her goblet raised, but he ignored her and said:

"Don't you think you are overdoing it a bit with your Muggle nonsense? I do not doubt that you know a thing or two about fighting the Dark Arts, but – you can't _really believe that all this" – he indicated the room filled with musical instruments and numerous music utensils with a swing of his goblet – "will help you any against Lord Voldemort, can you?"_

Varlerta sighed and placed her untouched goblet of wine on the floor next to the sofa, careful to put it down out of the reach of her dragon hide-booted feet.

"I know I didn't convince you last time, even though I did make you set your own head on fire with my Muggle nonsense. But just give me another while, and I'm sure you'll see that my work is useful for all of us, not in terms of attack, but in terms of defence. I will build up a wall of sound that can protect us against the worst curses. When I'm ready, I'll prove it to you."

Now it was his turn to laugh, but Neville knew this was his usual Professor Snape laughter, which was neither joyful nor friendly. There was a distinct green shimmer in his hair now. 

"I'm sure the Dark Lord will be really impressed when he sees you facing him, armed with your pretty little guitar. He will just dissolve into thin air when you play the first note, won't he?"

Professor Varlerta's face darkened in a way that Neville had never seen before. Her eyebrows almost joined into one line above the bridge of her nose, and her chin moved out.

"Don't push it, Verus," she said to him, not laughing now. "I respect your work, and you could do me the decency of trusting me to do mine."

"Your work –" his voice was audibly raised now – "is to teach the students at this school to defend themselves against the Dark Arts at a time we really need it. We are facing the worst, in case you haven't noticed. When I saw that Dumbledore had hired you, I thought for once in his life he'd chosen the right person for the job, not the usual unqualified scum he picked up from the gutter for it in recent years. Knowing you, knowing your history, I believed you up to it. Now I am a tiny bit disappointed to see you are teaching them" – he was positively shouting now, his face a grimace covered by a few poisonously green strands of hair – "_music_!"

Flushed with anger, Varlerta opened her mouth as if to reply, but then got up from the sofa rather abruptly and walked a few steps towards the glass pane, hands clenched, breathing heavily. Obviously she was fighting to control herself. After a minute she turned her back to the two students and faced the Potions Master. 

"Let's get a few things clear, Verus." Her hands were moving around in large gestures. Neville could see them trembling. "I am not, I repeat to you for maybe the hundredth time, teaching my students music for fun. Neither am I teaching them only music. I'm following the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum for each school year rather narrowly, and the few adaptations I made are due to recent developments in the field of magic. However, I am developing and employing a few methods that will revolutionise a few fields in magic, namely Strengthening and Shielding. And these include the utterly useless and ridiculous Muggle art of music, like it or not!"

Professor Snape had risen from his sofa and walked over to the glass pane as well, leaning against it and making a rather bad show of being cool and condescending.

"I hate to destroy your pleasant dreams, Valerie, but it's a bad, bad world out there. I thought you knew, but the years seem to have taught you nothing." Through the glass the two teachers could be seen as black silhouettes now, facing each other, only a few feet away from the two students hidden in the darkness. Professor Snape was standing so close to Professor Varlerta that she was forced to bend back her head a little to look into his face.

"Don't you want me to take over the burden of a job that is obviously too much for you?" he said with the farce of a friendly smile. Varlerta was obviously fuming. She took another step towards him, poking him in the chest with her wand, her nose only an inch or two from his.

"Verus, you force me up the room partition! Do you hear me? You are driving me completely nuts with your unfairness and ignorance. But I'll show you, and I'll show you tonight! You want to see my methods work? I'm challenging you to a non-limit duel. You hear that? Non-limit, right here and now, and then you'll see that my silly Muggle arts will protect me against any evil curse you could possibly hurl at me." 

Neville heard Ginny whimper at his side very, very softly. He took her small, cool hand to comfort her, though his own heart was beating against his chest. These two adults, what's more, teachers, were they completely out of their minds? 

Professor Snape apparently did not want to duel with Varlerta, however. 

"Oh, what an intelligent suggestion. I'll use Unforgivable curses, and have the regulation committee carry me off to Azkaban a minute later. In case you haven't noticed, you're back in a civilised country with laws and other strange things beyond your comprehension."

"This building is not only soundproof, Verus," Varlerta said in a voice that suddenly sounded completely calm again. "I knew I had to do some rather delicate research here, so I asked Dumbledore to make it magic-proof as well. Nobody on the outside will know what's going on in here, you can trust me with that. Otherwise I wouldn't have suggested it." 

"Ridiculous!" the Potions Master replied vaguely. Varlerta sat down on the sofa and started to unlace her red boots.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, sounding rather worried. There was a trace of blue in his hair.

"Taking off these boots. The high heels don't really come in handy in a duel, you know. I might trip and sprain an ankle." She pulled off her right boot and started on the left one.

"You can't really mean it," he exclaimed. "Listen, I do not entirely agree with your methods, but there's no need to – wait, leave your guitar on the stand, I don't _want to duel with you!" _

"We might as well get on with it. I'm just in the right mood for it," Varlerta replied grimly and strapped the guitar over her shoulder. Then she dug out two pairs of fuzzy pink earmuffs and handed one to Professor Snape. "It's going to get pretty loud now. You'll need protection or your ears will be permanently damaged." 

"Didn't you hear me? I don't want to duel!" he shouted at her. 

"Nope," she replied and shut off all sound by putting on her earmuffs. "Imperio, Crucio, just go ahead with everything that comes to your mind. I'm armed against it, as you'll see." With these words she put her shimmering plectrum – a dragon scale, Neville knew – to her strings.

Neville felt nauseous. He did not want to see the things that would follow, did not want to see Professor Snape apply the kind of torture to Varlerta that had driven his parents to insanity. All he wanted was to get out of this stuffy little room, to run for it. But now Varlerta was working away at her strings, turning to the amplifier to build up a feedback. The noise appeared to shake the building; he could feel the floor vibrate. Quickly Neville crawled to the door and pulled the lever once more, blocking out most of the sound. Now they could feel it rather than hear it.

Huddled in the corner, Ginny trembling at his side, Neville watched the two teachers with dread and fascination. Professor Snape, his face a mask of anger, had his wand pulled out and pointing at Varlerta who was concentrating on her electric guitar. Then he shouted a word; Neville thought it might very well be "_Imperio!" Varlerta visibly tensed up, but kept playing, a grim smile on her lips. Snape waited for a moment, then tried again, but did not seem to succeed. Veins protruded on his forehead; a bead of sweat rolled down his left cheek. Suddenly he moved both of his arms forward with force, his black sleeves flying in a wide arch, his wand slashing the air until it pointed at her, his mouth open wide as he screamed the word. "__Crucio," Neville whimpered softly to himself._

The floor seemed to move in spasms; Professor Varlerta swayed for a second, her face distorted, but she did not stop playing. Neville had the impression of an invisible but tangible force moving back and forth through the room. Suddenly it was Snape that started to twitch. With a jerk he pulled his wand down. His left hand went to his forehead. Varlerta stopped playing, turned down the volume of the amplifier which was still emitting feedback, put her guitar on the stand and went to the Potions Master, putting a hand on his arm. He shook it off.

The scene appeared strangely mute after all the noise that had preceded it. Suddenly Neville remembered the Sound Blocker. He went to turn it off, returning to his corner with extreme care to move silently, believing that he had unblocked the sounds he and Ginny might be making as well.

"I'm fine, don't worry," Professor Snape spat at Professor Varlerta. She took a step backwards and looked at him.

"So what do you say about my methods now?" she asked. Neville noticed that both teachers looked rather dishevelled and were breathing hard. It took Snape a moment to reply.

"I'll say that unless you've tested it against Avada Kedavra, it is not safe to rely on it."

"Don't be silly. You'd have to be crazy to do that, out of your mind, or suicidal."

"It seems you do not trust your wonderful method overly much yourself, then. – Well, thanks for taking me to the Three Broomsticks for my birthday, but I suppose I'd better get to bed now as I have some important business to do tomorrow." Professor Snape ran a hand through his hair, its emerald green spotted with dark stains of sweat. Varlerta just stared at him and said nothing as he raised a hand in way of parting and then walked out into the night.

Apparently it took her a while to recover. Then suddenly she picked up her red boots still lying on the floor and hurled both of them against the door with force, uttering a stream of swear words worse than any Neville had ever heard so far. Most of them were directed at males in general or at particular parts of their anatomy. Then Varlerta turned on her unshod heels, opened the door to her private quarters, turned off the lights with a wave of her wand and slammed the door behind her.

Neville sat there in the dark, not daring to move. After what seemed an eternity, Ginny tugged at his sleeve.

"I think it would be safe to go now," she whispered and felt her way through the darkness. Neville did not think so, but followed her as staying put was certainly not a good idea. They made their way through the cluttered 'music laboratory' out into the grounds, then ran across the lawn back to the castle. Neville was terrified of running into Professor Snape somewhere, but they were lucky. Not before they had Coaxed the Fat Lady into opening for them at that late hour and had entered the sanctuary of the Gryffindor common room did they dare to speak.

"If he ever finds out we witnessed that he will kill us," Neville whispered, appalled by the magnitude of his fear. Ginny, pale, wide-eyed and shaking, nodded.

"So will she, I think," she replied and headed off to the girls' dormitories.


	8. Snape

8 – Snape 

Within the depth of the thick, black liquid slept a star of ruby light. Snape held the finger-sized crystal phial against a candle, admiring the beauty of the potion within. It had taken him weeks to make, and now that he held it in his hand he enjoyed its feel. Of course it was a forbidden substance, even more so than many of the potions he kept hidden in his dungeon. Not only using this potion but merely owning it was enough to earn a man several years in Azkaban. But of course, it wasn't any old forbidden love potion, it was _the forbidden love potion. Its name seemed to caress his lips when he uttered it._

Devotacarna.

Poured into red wine, it left no trace, but if he managed to sneak it into Valerie's goblet at tonight's feast, she would be down in his dungeon before midnight, begging him to make love to her.

Of course, he would not do it, but still he had to grant himself the pleasure of thinking about this possibility now and then. He was aware that it was an obsession, a power trip that had gotten hold of him after he had seen her laughing with Black. Snape tried not to think about it, because then hatred would rise in him again and all pleasant thoughts would evaporate. The joy of brewing the potion in a tiny golden cauldron had made the last weeks bearable. But since the moment he had completed it by adding a drop of his own blood to the boiling liquid, the realisation that he could never use it gnawed at his mind.

The effect of the potion would not last forever, and there was no telling how long it would last exactly, but he was not prepared to keep Varlerta drugged for the rest of her life at any rate. He imagined her waking up one morning by his side, looking at him in shock, appalled of what she had done, of the man with whom she had shared her bed. The idea of her face distorted in disgust haunted him. And of course, she would suspect foul play then, would know he had the means to ensnare her senses, and would probably not rest until they took him away. No, he knew he had to keep this phial sealed. But whenever she taunted him or got the better of him, which seemed to happen all the time, it felt good to hold the essence of power in his hand for a minute. 

He pressed the cool glass of the phial against his eyelids, first against one, then against the other. When she had first come to teach at Hogwarts, things hadn't looked that bad between them, but since then he had found himself always saying or doing exactly the wrong thing. He wished he could return with her to the clearing that had been the hideout of their youth, could sit on the old tree trunk with her, listen to her playing a civilized instrument, not her hideous Muggle guitar, and find the time to get to know her again. Yet there seemed to be no such place as a clearing in his daily life at Hogwarts. He did not understand her, and she did not understand him. If the feeling of longing that kept on burning inside of him only got that clear, if it only listened to reason and disappeared, everything would be fine.

So today was her birthday. All Hallows' Eve. Somehow, her life seemed to be an assembly of practical jokes, only he was never sure if the joke wasn't maybe on him. They'd only once celebrated their birthdays together, amused by the fact that the two dates lay only three days apart. Sitting by the fireplace in the Slytherin Common Room they had been drinking pumpkin juice, the few feet of air between them no obstacle to the feeling of a shared celebration. Since then, he'd drunk to her health silently every single Halloween of the last twenty-one years, had spent a moment's thought on her no matter whether he was spending the holiday in the Great Hall at Hogwarts or in the Death Eaters' headquarter, whether he was hunting trolls, scouring the castle for his eternal enemy Black or welcoming foreign guests to the school on that day. Wasn't it ironic that this year she was here with him and he could not even think of a present for her?

With a scowl he looked at the thing she had given him for his birthday that night she had taken him out to the Three Broomsticks, a flimsy, colourful paperback volume on the history, fashion and problems of mood hair. She said she had ordered it directly from New York City for him. It was to help him find a means to remove his unwanted condition, she had told him, but for now, all the book did was remind him of it. Of course, she might be winding him up as well. They might all be making a fool of him; probably the whole school shared her amusement. Several people had assured him that his hair changed its colour, but whenever he looked at himself in the mirror all he saw was the same ugly green framing the same scowl under the same hooked nose.

Then there was the matter of the duel, of curses he had never thought he'd utter again. Snape felt he was becoming tangled up in something of which he did not want to be part. He found his own behaviour sickening: She had ordered him around, and he had followed orders, just like he had in a distant past. Maybe not quite so distant, though. When he had told her he had some important business to do on the next day, it had been the truth. That Sunday had been the date set for one more try of a task he found not only useless, but that he feared almost beyond anything else. Since then, since the minute he entered Azkaban and met its most infamous prisoner he felt slightly ill, as if suffering from a slow poisoning. Not even handling the powerful essence he had brewed could make him feel strong again. To make things worse, the Dark Mark on his arm had been burning like fire all day, as it did rather frequently now. The pain was a lesser problem, but it always filled him with dread. Snape exhaled, observed the faint spot of steam that was forming on the small phial and tried to decide rationally which of his many afflictions was the worst. Women, he decided. He knew very well why he had shunned them like the plague for most of his life.

It was time to go to the banquet, though he would have preferred to hide in his dungeon. Tonight of all nights he did not really want to see anybody, not even the teacher celebrating her thirty-fifth birthday. He found facing her difficult these last three days, not only because of the duel which had not been altogether a playful struggle among friends, not only because he was feeling the pressure of his burden, but also because he was not sure what to think of her methods now. He dreaded to think that they might turn out to be completely useless, or worse, that they might turn out to be just the opposite and he would have to admit it. Whatever they were good for, she sure had made them work for her that night. 

With a sigh, feeling weary beyond words, he rose from his chair and made his way up to the Great Hall. Usually Halloween was a holiday he rather enjoyed – he liked it better than Christmas, at any rate – but this year the silvery spiders' webs, the bright orange jack-o'-lanterns, the live bats and the dancing skeletons seemed to have lost their charm. After all they were just childish decorations put up to please the immature and the simple-minded. Even when he saw the Bloody Baron manage to violently kick Nearly Headless Nick and Peeves out of the man-high giant pumpkin that glowed in the middle of the room, he could not feel even remotely pleased. Life was a burden. There was nothing to celebrate.

Valerie did not think so, apparently. She was wearing witches' robes with a print pattern, namely violently orange pumpkins scattered on a black background. He could see it from afar. It had to be the least tasteful piece of clothing he had ever encountered in his whole life. Scowling he approached the staff table, hoping to be invisible. Of course, his hopes were burnt to ashes within a moment.

"Look who's here," shouted Professor Sprout, who had the vile habit of getting slightly tipsy on holidays. "Our fertility god, the Green Man is honouring us with his presence." Keeping his face averted he could still hear the witches enjoying themselves at his expense – Sprout's hysterical giggle, Hooch's thigh-slapping joviality, Trelawney's airy breathing spasms only remotely resembling laughter, Pomfrey's sympathetic gurgling, even McGonagall's sophisticated haw-haw. Why did there have to be women on this earth, or children, for that matter? Couldn't men just grow on trees? 

Valerie, who had been leaning over the empty chair to her left to talk to Hagrid, sat up to greet him now. He wished himself far away, but could not very well take any other chair than the one she had kept vacant for him with or without intending to, so he sat.

"Happy birthday, Valerie," he said, knowing it sounded more like a wish of condolence. 

"Don't sit here and get her depressed, you oaf," Sprout chided him loudly, tactful as ever. "It's her birthday. It's party-time! Look at what we got her!" She tugged at Valerie's pumpkin-splattered sleeve. "Move off to the morgue if you can't come up with a better face tonight." 

"No, please stay, Verus," Valerie said, though fighting with laughter herself. Through her black hair shone the bright orange of garish pumpkin earrings. He could not think of anything to say, and that was maybe lucky.

The feast was the usual affair, gluttony and careless chatter. Snape did not care much for food himself. On a day like this, it all tasted like saw-dust. When he watched Valerie laugh, eat heartily and drink a goblet of wine, he could not help thinking of the phial he had left behind in his dungeons, one that held a much stronger intoxication than anything they could serve at this feast. Then suddenly she dropped the goblet, splattering blood red wine over the white tablecloth. For the fraction of a second, he thought she had tasted his potion, but reminded himself he had not tempered with her goblet. Valerie stared at him, her face bloodless. The second he saw Dumbledore rise, he felt it, too.

Icy Fingers.

It was an immensely powerful curse that crawled through the veins of witch or wizard, leaving them cold and weak, draining them of their magical powers. Icy Fingers was the curse of Lord Voldemort. In the years of darkness, he had used it to fight even the mighty. 

Someone in the claws of this curse did not fight back anymore. Much more wasn't known about it. Did the curse give Lord Voldemort access to the strength of those he attacked with it, or did it just paralyse them? They did not know, but they knew one thing: Icy Fingers was the means to invade Hogwarts. It had been tried before, in the year before Voldemort's downfall. Now Voldemort was trying again.

As if looking through a veil, Snape could see Dumbledore raise his wand and say something to a determined-looking Professor McGonagall. A storm of noise rose up in the Great Hall, and the sky above darkened. He heard Valerie shout orders over the wind and saw she had climbed onto the staff table, neatly placing one of her black boots right into a plate of freezing Yorkshire pudding, her silly robe and her black hair blown back by the blast. All the students of Hogwarts, now shivering and hugging themselves, seemed to look up at her, then obeyed her and assembled in a large, tight knot in front of the staff table. Professor Sinistra was handing up Valerie's electric guitar after taking it out of its nylon bag. Snape put her small, battery-powered portable amplifier next to her and helped her plug in the guitar cable. His fingers felt numb with cold. He saw Ginny and Neville running up to her, the red-haired girl holding her weird savage's drum in one hand and pulling the clumsy Gryffindor boy behind her with the other. They got up on the table with Valerie, who was playing soft, eerie chords on her guitar now. Ginny's steady drum rhythm joined in with her, giving Snape back a tiny bit of energy. Neville was fumbling with his flute, but finally managed to put it together properly. He blew a few notes on it which made Snape's hair stand on end.

Dumbledore shouted at the teachers to round up the hundred and fifty or more students assembling next to the ice-covered staff table. Professor Trelawney stood in front of them in a protective gesture as if crucified, while Quibster was making soothing noises to the Potter boy clutching his scar. Madam Pomfrey was comforting a few sobbing first-years, while Hagrid, shivering so violently that the whole knot of students seemed to sway back and forth with it, was hugging at least six of the younger boys and girls. Tiny Professor Flitwick had mounted the table with Madam Hooch's aid and was now singing a soprano incantation that blended in with Varlerta's landscape of sound, the heartbeat of Ginny's drum and the ghostly tune Neville was weaving into it. Their music spell was audible even over the howl of the storm. They are doing it, Snape thought when he saw a silvery shimmer form around the assembled students. They are up there fighting this curse. He realised he did not feel quite so cold anymore. The air was icy, but there seemed to be something like a second skin between his body and the frozen atmosphere in the Great Hall.

But when he saw that Valerie was deathly pale, that her arpeggios were getting slower, that tiny icicles were hanging from her fingers, he knew she could not last. Not like this, upholding a spell of this magnitude, at any rate. She needed all the help she could get. If there was only time to get her a potion for strength! Remembering a few things she had told him when sitting with him in a dimly lit corner of the Three Broomsticks, he wondered why she did not make the students support her with all their magical strength. It was all about moving magical strength between objects and between people, she had said though he had not believed her. She could do it, she'd said. Lord Voldemort could do it. She believed every witch and wizard of this school could learn it, that some of her students already knew a bit about it. Why didn't she use them now when she needed them?

When he looked up into her face, pale, trance-like, a thin layer of ice on her lips, he realised that she could not talk now, could not give the shivering lot of students any orders, because interrupting her playing would be fatal. So he jumped up on the table as well and shouted:

"Everybody listen! Close your insides to the cold and to the fingers tugging at your strength. Deny them entry. If you know how, send all your strength to Professor Varlerta who will fight off this curse and save you all. Those of you who know any music magic, sing along with Professor Flitwick's incantation to support her."

He saw some surprised students' eyes rest on him for a second, so he gave them his most commanding stare. Here and there in the room a few clear voices arose and joined in with Flitwick's common defence incantation. When he saw Professor McGonagall blow on Dumbledore's hands to revive the old headmaster, he knew that now that the students were protected against the worst, they were ready to do a true counter spell that went beyond mere defence. They could not see the people who were working this curse from some distance off, but there were ways to hurt them. Snape jumped off the table again and gripped Dumbledore's shoulder. The mighty wizard, visibly shaken and suddenly looking as ancient as he was, acknowledged Snape's presence by lowering an eyelid covered with ice crystals. Icy Fingers had always drained the headmaster of his powers in a way that was truly mystifying, and was weakening him more than everybody else now. There was very little time to lose. "Hex-Reflex!" whispered Professor McGonagall. Snape nodded. Along with her and Dumbledore, he raised his wand, rubbing Dumbledore's shoulder with one hand to give the old wizard a minimum of warmth. Professor McGonagall pointed westwards, indicating where the curse came from. Pointing their wands accordingly, all three Hogwarts teachers shouted "_Reflexio!" simultaneously; then the group of them crashed down onto the floor in a jumble of frozen limbs. Dumbledore's scream was ringing in Snape's ears. Weak as the headmaster might be, he had probably never produced a feeble spell in his life. _

As much as he would have liked to rest a second where he had fallen, he knew it was out of the question, so he sat back up. The storm had ceased. High above him on the ceiling, stars were twinkling. A multitude of students' voices invaded his ears. Professor McGonagall was sitting next to Dumbledore, rubbing his arms, but the old wizard seemed to have regained his usual air of power.

"Leave it, Minerva, Poppy will fix me up in no time at all. Let's get a bit of order into this battlefield until we know there won't be another attack."

Snape jumped to his feet so quickly that he nearly slipped on the ice-covered floor. It was risky, but he needed to get into his storage dungeon. He practically leaped down the stairs, grabbed an old linen sack and started to empty some of the cupboards and shelves. Strengthening Potions, Warming Potions, even a few bottles of Frostbite Remedy were needed, and they needed him up there with the work of his hands before another attack came. After putting a hasty unbreakable charm on the many glass bottles jumbled together in the sack, hoping it would suffice, he took the stairs in a run again. 

The Great Hall was a mess. Tables had fallen over, and many different kinds of food had spilled onto the floor, not to mention gallons of sticky, melting pumpkin juice. Half-torn party decorations still hung from the ceiling and the walls as if to mock them. Snape surveyed the situation. Nobody seemed to be dead or seriously injured, but many students were apparently complaining of frostbite or were otherwise hurt by the cold. Madame Pomfrey was taking care of some while Professor McGonagall was trying to find out whom of the other students was worst off. Snape saw Professor Sprout fuss over a pale, but conscious Valerie. He went over to Madame Pomfrey and handed her a number of bottles. The plump matron gave him a look of gratitude.  

"You have a better heart that they give you credit for," she told him. He replied with a derisive grunt, then supplied Professor McGonagall with some potions and put one of his strongest Solution for Healing and Warming in the hand of Professor Dumbledore. The old headmaster gave him a bitter smile, opened the small glass flask and drained it at once. Snape knew and understood Dumbledore's problem: What good was it to be the greatest wizard of all time, if the Icy Fingers curse so utterly defeated you? Holding another little bottle of the strong potion in his palm, which he was aching to deliver, he nevertheless took a moment to sit next to the weakened headmaster.

"Do you expect another attack soon?" he asked him. Dumbledore shook his head. He had almost completely regained his usual air of natural authority.

"I had the feeling we scored a good hit against the Death Eaters out there, but we cannot be absolutely sure. I asked Professor Flitwick to contact the Aurors. In the meantime, please install order because we will have to stay here for another while until we know what is going on."

Snape nodded and banged against a small bronze globe next to the staff table to summon the house-elves. Usually eager to serve, they were now likely to be cowering under the tables and chairs down in the kitchen, scared of the curse. But leaving the room like it was meant an unnecessary risk in the present situation, because people might slip on the food and hurt themselves, especially if blinded by another attack. As soon as he heard the house-elves stir in their secret passages, he turned to the person he worried about most.

Valerie sat on one chair, her feet propped up on another, her whole body wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. She was holding a mug of steaming tea with both hands that someone must have conjured out of nothing. When she saw him, a smile lit her pale and frostbitten face. He pulled up a chair beside her and sat. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Cold, but otherwise okay," she answered in a softer tone than usual, her voice slightly hoarse. Ice crystals were thawing on the dark lashes that framed her grey eyes. 

"Take this, it should help," he said and gave her the potion he had saved for her. She looked at the bottle and read its neatly written label.

"It's not necessary. I'll be alright," she replied and tried to hand it back to him, but he would not take it.

"There might still be another attack tonight. If you do not want to take the potion now, at least keep it on you."

She nodded and pocketed the bottle without another word. He noticed her hands were stiff because the skin on her fingers was cracked in so many places. Suddenly it was not so difficult anymore to tell her:

"You did a remarkably good job just now. I think we all have to thank you."

She looked at him, the fine lines around her eyes creasing almost imperceptibly. "I wouldn't have made it alone. I had loads of help. Without you I certainly wouldn't have gotten very far, so it's me who should thank you." 

"Don't mention it. You should have Poppy take care of these fingers, just in case you need them again tonight." 

He should have thought of bringing something for cracked skin from his dungeon as well, because Madam Pomfrey was very busy with the students right now. Ought he go again and get something for Valerie now? The thought of leaving her alone up here while there was still the threat of another attack made him uneasy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brigade of house-elves approach, mops and brooms in their ugly little hands. Of course, she wasn't alone. There were presently close to a hundred and eighty magical beings here with her, all of them at her service if she needed them. With a sidelong glance at Madam Pomfrey, who, in spite of now employing the help of Professor Sprout and Madam Hooch, seemed to be getting nowhere with all her wimpy students' ailments and maladies, he told Valerie he'd be back in a minute. Ginny and Neville, sitting only a few feet off, eyed him with what looked like mistrust when he got up and left.

In his dungeon, he quickly fetched a slim bottle of the extra-strong solution he kept in his own workspace for emergencies. When he came up into the Entrance Hall, he noticed a loud knock at the large outer door of the castle. From a gloomy corner, sour-faced Filch emerged holding a dully shining lantern and went to open the door. "Wait!" Snape called him back. There might very well be a party of Death Eaters asking to enter. It was not like them to knock politely, but the door was protected by a complicated spell which few would have managed to break. The inhabitants of Hogwarts might have to hold the door in a fight anyway, but there was no reason why he should make the entrance easy for an enemy.

Filch turned his shrewd, sour face towards Snape with a questioning look, but then bowed in obedience. The caretaker always seemed eager to do what he told him, maybe because he was afraid of the Potions Master's power. Snape had always rather liked the weird, ugly squib, maybe because he was even a worse anti-social than him, maybe because of his hopeless attempts to do a little magic after all, but the real reason might just as well have been that Filch's reliable obedience comforted him.

"Get back to your quarters, Filch, and leave that door alone," he told him. "There might be your death waiting outside." Filch hunched his shoulders and shuffled down a dark staircase.

"In the name of the Ministry, open to Gerold Hawks and his team of Aurors! Open now!" somebody hollered from outside.

That's what I'd say, too, if I was a Death Eater standing outside, Snape thought. The normal course of affairs in such a situation would be to go to Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall and face peril together with them, but he knew they had to stay in the Great Hall to protect the students. Also Dumbledore was not well. If he asked his advice regarding the door, would the old headmaster insist on coming out although this might not be prudent right now?

"Open, Dumbledore, let us in!" the voice shouted outside the door. There was a thundering knock. Snape remembered the spy-hole in the door, but when he saw a group of twelve wizards in Aurors' robes, their faces covered by Aurors' protective masks, he did not feel much safer. The tall wizard in front might very well be Gerold Hawks, but then again, he might not. If it was really him, he would be angry if Snape did not let him in at once, of course. Snape could ask him the password they had agreed on at the last meeting of Dumbledore's secret order, but what if Dumbledore was right and there was really a leak somewhere? This was an awful situation, almost as bad as a group of giggling witches. But at least he could try to communicate.

"Hawks, we're in a bit of a fix here," Snape hollered through the door. "We've been attacked, and I'm under strict orders not to let anybody in without proof of identity."

The tall wizard removed his Auror's mask. He did look like Hawks. The card he produced from his breast pocket also looked very much like an Auror's card of identification. Of course, that did not have to mean a thing either. "Come on, let us in now," he insisted, impatience in his voice. Impatience to storm the castle?

"Severus, what is it?"

Snape turned. What a relief! He did not have to make this decision on his own after all. Behind him stood Professor McGonagall.

"There's a group of wizards at the door who say they are Aurors. The leader looks like Hawks. Can you do a proper identification?"

Professor McGonagall took off her square glasses and squinted through the glass hole. After a few seconds she nodded and opened the door with a tap of her wand. Snape did not question her decision. She usually knew what she was doing. Anyone who mistook Minerva McGonagall for a strict, old-fashioned but mainly harmless teacher might be in for a surprise. Just because she looked like somebody's spinster great-aunt did not mean she wasn't as tough as old boot leather. Even though she was now greeting Hawks with a friendly handshake, Snape noticed that she was still holding her wand in her left. The group of Aurors streamed into the Entrance Hall now. Snape quickly closed the door again after the last had passed it. Hawks, a well-built, blonde wizard in his forties, approached him with a scowl, but offered him a hand to shake nevertheless.

"Thought we were the enemy, didn't you?" he asked. "In your mind everybody must be filled to the brim with Polyjuice Potion and evil intentions."

"I had my orders," Snape replied curtly, hoping Professor McGonagall would refrain from contradicting him. "Please come in and excuse the mess. We just had a little trouble with Icy Fingers, more than a little, actually." He enjoyed watching the Aurors' faces pale.

 "Who did that?" asked one. "Where are they now?" another asked. "How many are dead?" was a question that filled Snape with a trace of pride. Hawks was taking large strides towards the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall on his heels. 

The house-elves had already removed a large part of the mess and the damaged decorations. Students were sitting in orderly rows in the middle of the room, guarded by the four Prefects, while the Head Boy and the Head Girl walked around to distribute words of comfort to a few sniveling first-years. A few students were sitting on the side because they were still receiving treatment from Madam Pomfrey. Someone had neatly arranged the equipment of the 'music team' on an empty table, ready if it was needed again, while another table held what was left of Snape's potion supplies. The teachers sat around another table, resting or talking to each other. Snape squared his shoulders when he realised that even in a moment of crisis, Hogwarts could prove that it was in good shape. He was glad that Hawks and his group had come. Even if the teachers of Hogwarts preferred to hunt the Death Eaters who might or might not still be out there themselves, the students' immediate safety always came first. As it was, most of them were needed in here. But that did not mean that he would have liked to see Hawks gloat at Hogwarts' ruin. When it came to safety matters, Aurors could be so patronizing!

Dumbledore appeared to be back in working order as well. He walked over to them, hands outstretched to greet their protectors. The potion must be working well, Snape thought. He should really get some rest now, because if he doesn't, it is likely he will pay tomorrow. But maybe the headmaster felt like him and saw the Aurors as necessary intruders.

"Gerold, it's good to see you. Your team has responded with greatest speed, I see," Dumbledore said.

The Auror was a few inches taller than the headmaster; his erect posture seemed to emphasize this. Looking down on him just a tiny bit, he said with a calm, melodious voice:

"Tell me what happened."

"We were all sitting here at our Halloween feast, a little less than an hour ago, when someone attacked us with an Icy Fingers curse from the outside. It was a very strong one, stronger than I have ever experienced. Luckily, we found ways to fight it so nobody was badly hurt. Professor Varlerta protected everyone with a Shielding Spell, and Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape and I Countered with a Hex-Reflex. I do believe we managed to hurt the attackers, but of course, you never know. I suggest that a few of us join your group and scour the grounds to see if there's anyone left."

Gerold Hawks looked impressed. "How did you manage to work these spells when affected by Icy Fingers? Didn't it paralyse you?"

"Professor Varlerta has got a new method which proved to be rather effective tonight and helped us all stay active," Dumbledore replied. "You will find her over there at the table with the other teachers. At the moment she is suffering from a bit of exhaustion, but will answer all your questions once we have made sure the grounds of Hogwarts are safe."

Hawks was stretching his neck now to get a glimpse of Valerie, who had stretched out over several chairs and looked as if she was asleep. The other Aurors, none of them known personally to Snape, murmured among themselves. 

"I am glad to see that the teachers of Hogwarts are so exceptionally qualified," Hawks said in a slightly condescending tone. "Who of your staff will serve us as reinforcement?"

Dumbledore looked at Snape and at Professor McGonagall who were standing next to them. "Minerva, I would like you to stand guard here with me. I believe this sounds like a job for you, Severus, that is, if you are willing to accept Gerold's authority for tonight. Madam Hooch, Hagrid and Professor Quibster should accompany you, I think."

"Very well," Snape replied through clenched teeth, angry at the headmaster's putdown even though he knew it was not wholly without justification. "I will be a good boy and do what I'm told." He turned to notify the other three teachers. They got up immediately when he called their names, anticipating the task that was asked of them, and followed Snape into the Entrance Hall where the group of Aurors was waiting for them. Professor McGonagall handed Madam Hooch her broomstick and supplied Snape and Quibster with two of the better school brooms. Hagrid would not be flying. He was too heavy for normal broomsticks and too unwilling to have one made especially for him, so he would wait for them in the Entrance Hall in case they needed to enter the Forbidden Forest, as he knew it best. "We'll show'em, ruddy Death Eaters," the half-giant murmured angrily.

The group mounted their broomsticks and kicked off into the air. Snape tried to keep his back straight on the shaky piece of firewood he was riding. He had never enjoyed sitting on a broomstick particularly much, though over the years he had acquired a reasonable amount of skill. As a student he had been a Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team for a year. He had played because it was expected of him, because his parents had given him a good broomstick for Christmas and because after Valerie had disappeared and the Duelling club had been laid off for a while, there wasn't much else to do. But as far as he was concerned, sitting on a broomstick was neither a dignified way of travelling – he preferred to Apparate – nor a comfortable way of looking for murderous Death Eaters hiding in the pitch black grounds. 

Some of the hunting party seemed to see things differently, though. Madam Hooch had to be pardoned, because it was obviously impossible for her to sit on a broom without doing some sharp turns and daring loops now and then, but he had certainly expected the Aurors to display a more professional attitude. They used their wands as torches to search every square foot of the grounds thoroughly, but many times when one of them flew an elegant loop to make sure no niche or corner was left out, Snape noticed that a simple movement of the wand arm would have done the same job. This is not an Aurors' summer camp, Snape wanted to tell them. Voldemort is on the rise again, Hogwarts has been attacked, we probably had a narrow escape, the grounds may be crawling with Death Eaters planning to get another Icy Fingers ready, and here are the best-paid magic warriors of the country, flying pretty loops while on duty. But remembering his promise to Dumbledore, he did not voice his thoughts aloud.

When they were soaring over a small hill west of the castle, Hawks suddenly called out and pointed. The Aurors and the teachers descended on their broomsticks like a flock of sombre birds. Snape could see that the grass and the shrubs on the hill were frozen. Splayed on the ground lay the body of a man in a Death Eater's robe and hood, covered with a sheet of ice. After making sure there were no more living Death Eaters around, Hawks put down his broom and knelt next to the body. When he removed the hood, Snape knew the dead man at once by his black moustache and his bushy, dark eyebrows, even though his face was distorted with the painful death he had suffered. It was his former school friend and fellow Death Eater, who had later become an official for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, Walden Macnair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Aurors conjured up an official Ministry coffin and bore the body into the castle, supporting it between two broomsticks. Hagrid and Dumbledore were expecting them in the Great Hall. They soon agreed to carry the coffin into Dumbledore's office for now so the students would not have to see it. Snape thought this was pointless, as were most attempts to spare people's feelings because they usually found out nevertheless. However, he did not argue. In the office, the Aurors wrote some preliminary reports. Snape had to write one, too, as he was a witness and the first to identify the body. Hawks gave Dumbledore a lot of good advice about the security of the castle. Snape had the impression they knew far less about it than Dumbledore or even he, but reminded himself he was expected to keep quiet about this. When the Aurors finally left, it was past Midnight. Snape let out a long sigh of relief when he saw the front portal of Hogwarts close behind the last heel of a heavy Auror's boot. Then he went into the Great Hall, not because he really expected to still find Valerie where he had left her, just because. 

The Great Hall looked utterly deserted. High above on the ceiling some stars and a half-moon shone on tables put back in order, but in the far corner where he had seen Valerie sleeping on a few chairs, the neat rows were disturbed. He went there and found she lay there still, sleeping in the quiet and semi-darkness of the empty Hall. Someone had covered her with the fuzzy blanket again. Her face was very calm and looked as if it was recovering from a sand paper treatment. He pulled up a chair for himself and watched her for a few minutes. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and softly said her name. Valerie stirred, murmured something and opened her eyes.

"Maybe you should sleep in your bed," he suggested. She stretched and looked around.

"Goodness, I must have fallen asleep. Where is everybody? What about the Death Eaters?" She rubbed her eyes, then did some rather extensive stretching. Snape noticed that a seam on the sleeve of her ridiculous pumpkin robe had split.

"It's alright, they are gone," he told her. "We got one of them with the Hex-Reflex, Walden Macnair. He's dead." 

"He was at school with us," she said, still sounding a little drowsy. Snape looked around for her equipment. Somebody had packed her guitar and cable into its nylon bag; the small amplifier stood right next to it.

"We've had a group of Aurors here," he explained. "Want me to walk you home?"

When she made agreeing noises, he picked up the guitar bag and amplifier and refused her demand that she should carry at least one of them. When they came out into the Entrance Hall, he stopped next to the potion bottle. "Stuff for your hands," he said. Varlerta picked it up and took it with her. In silence they left the castle and crossed the dark grounds once more. The crescent moon shone silvery on the black ripples of the lake, and the birch trees at its shore did their usual nightly impression of bleached bones. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched.

"We've got to do something about that curse," Valerie said, now audibly recovering. "I suppose that's my job. We can't teach that Hex-Reflex thing to anyone below the sixth year, I believe. Actually I'd love to have your help in teaching that, because I haven't got as much experience with it."

"Sure, any time." He never missed a chance to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. 

"With that and my Dermasecunda, we are not completely defenceless, but it's not what I'd call safe either. Do you know if there's any Spellsearcher working on a real counter-curse for it? Someone who could teach us all how to defend ourselves properly?"

"Not really. After Voldemort fell, nobody ever used Icy Fingers anymore, so the Spellsearchers lost interest."

They had arrived at her door. She unlocked it, then turned around to him.

"But there's got to be some expert, someone who worked on a proper counter-curse in the seventies when there was so much trouble with Icy Fingers and the Death Eaters. I want to find these persons. They are needed here."

There was no point in not telling her, because, determined as she was, she was bound to find out anyway sooner or later. So he told her.

"The wizards who did the most promising research on a counter-curse for Icy Fingers back in the time before Voldemort's downfall were Lily and James Potter and Sirius Black."


	9. Sirius

9 – Sirius 

The sudden ring of the doorbell startled him. Mundungus was out to some dinner party, and had not said a word about expecting company, much less that late at night. Sirius decided to stay in his armchair, glad he had stuck to the precaution of not lighting the magical torches if Mundungus was not there. Opening the door was too much of a risk, and whoever was at the door would probably just go away if the house stayed dark and Mundungus did not answer. The bell rang again. Then someone knocked and shouted: 

"I know you're in there, but don't worry, because I'm friend, not foe."

Just like in the old days when you were always afraid to open your door, Sirius remembered. When Voldemort was in power, seeing and hearing friends outside was no guarantee that it was safe to let them in. He got his wand out of his pocket and got out of the armchair, careful not to make any noise. While he was still deciding whether or not to transform into a dog, the door was opened by a spell; the torches were lit by a simple Lumos spell. Into the hallway came the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Varlerta, hands outstretched to show she was unarmed. Sirius sighed with relief and motioned her to enter Mundungus' living room.

"Oh, hello, Professor Varlerta. Come in and sit down. What gives me the honour?"

"Hello, Mr. Black. Actually I've come to see you because I'd like to ask you something." Professor Varlerta dropped onto the sofa and rubbed her face with her hand. Both seemed to be healing from minor abrasions. Sirius noticed that she was wearing leather pants suitable for driving a motorbike, which made his conscience give a pang.

"Sorry about abducting your motorbike. I'd never have borrowed it if I'd known I wouldn't be able to get it back for such a long time. Tea?"

She waved his apology away, or maybe she was just declining his offer. "Don't worry, I didn't need it. I've got a car now. Actually, that's why I've come. I'd like to take you back to Hogwarts if you're willing, Mr. Black."

Willing? Did she say willing? But what he wanted wasn't the main point here.

"Dumbledore told me to stay here. He said it's not safe to fly home."

"I agree with him." Professor Varlerta took off her leather jacket and let it fall onto the sofa. "It's not safe, especially if you are flying through the sky on an invisible motorbike, while everybody is searching the sky with anti-invisibility spyglasses for Mr. Black on an invisible motorbike. Also, we do not know whether there is a leak in our 'Order' or however Dumbledore wants to call it, and whether this leak is somebody who knows you are an Animagus. So it is not safe to run all the way to Hogwarts on four paws, either. If you get into my invisible car in the shape of a dog, it is still quite risky, but I believe the risk to be relatively smaller. It's up to you whether you want to take it or not."

He did not want to appear rash, or make a mistake and regret it later, so he asked: "What does Dumbledore say to that?"

"Well..." She hesitated, then looked him squarely in the eyes: "He didn't say a thing. I didn't tell anyone I'd go and get you. I just acted on the spur of the moment, you could say."

If this wasn't fishy... "Why? Didn't we all agree to coordinate our actions with him?"

Professor Varlerta crossed her legs and shifted on the sofa as if to get into a comfortable position for telling a story. After a few moments of audible silence, she said:

"The castle was attacked by a rather mean blast of Icy Fingers the day before yesterday. – No, nobody took any harm to speak of, except for an attacker," she hurried to say when he moved to ask her. "We managed to defend ourselves with the usual methods, and later called a group of Aurors to search the grounds for Death Eaters. But as you will probably know best, that is not good enough for Icy Fingers. Voldemort and his supporters are very likely to try again, and soon, too. As you may know, my position at Hogwarts includes certain responsibilities. I tried to find an expert who could help me to live up to them, and it seems you are the only expert left alive."

She had a brutal way of coming to the point, he thought. Thinking about his Spellsearching days was painful. They had worked for the Ministry, Lily, James and he. Peter, he remembered, had not passed the test, while as a werewolf, Remus had not even been permitted to take it. That had not discouraged Lily, James and him, though. The threat of Lord Voldemort's Icy Fingers curse had cast a shadow on everybody's life. Because of their top NEWT's, people had had the highest expectations of the three of them, so they felt it was their personal duty to find the way to block or break this curse. They had believed in what they were doing. 

When Lily found out she was expecting little Harry, she had been banned from the dangers of their Spellsearchers' laboratory, of course. Her contribution had been limited to book research. Still the three of them had been a team focusing on their common goal until the day when Sybil Trelawney's prediction had made it necessary to put precautions before research. When James had left the laboratory to go into hiding, both he and Sirius had been convinced they would continue their work together soon. They had been mistaken.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You must be aware that this was fourteen years ago. I don't think I know much more about breaking Icy Fingers than the next best Spellsearcher."

She chewed her bottom lip and wrinkled her forehead, apparently thinking. Finally she said:

"You don't want to work on it. Why?"

Because Lily and James were dead. Because they wouldn't be but for his ambition. "Because... er... there's got to be other people who are better qualified for it. Official Spellsearchers with a proper laboratory and a Ministry budget to go with it. Finding a way to break Icy Fingers used to be a high priority issue."

She snorted. "Used to be, yes, but not anymore. Remember, we've got that idiot Fudge for a Minister of Magic. You know what his top priority is? Muggle Repellents. That's where the cosy laboratories and the Ministry budgets go today, not where they are needed. They say Fudge is much more concerned with his own Mugglephobia than with the threat of Voldemort." She stopped short, apparently aware that her anger showed.

"So nobody ever worked on a counter-curse for all these years?" He couldn't believe it. James and he had been so close to finding one! 

"Nope. When the acute threat no longer existed, nobody bothered with it anymore. I hope you do, though. The threat is back in town, and we need you at Hogwarts. Will you come with me?"

His emotions were in conflict. Yes, he wanted to get out of here, to get to Hogwarts, but no, he did not want to act against Dumbledore's will. Yes, the thought of having a task to do, of having a purpose in life again, was rather intriguing, but he knew he would see James wherever he turned if he tried to pick up their research where they had left it.

"It's not the kind of work to be done alone. I'd need partners, at least one," he replied to gain time for his decision.

"We'll find you one." She waved away his objection with her hand. "Until then, you can count on the Hogwarts staff to assist you in any way we can. I'm rather keen on seeing your work myself, because we need results ASAP."

"Why didn't you talk to Dumbledore about all this?"

"I did, actually. We had it all neatly figured out except for the transportation problem, on which we disagreed. He thinks it's not safe for you to leave this place. I think nothing whatsoever is safe today, so I came to get you with my car anyways. Now it's up to you. It's your life that is in danger if you come with me, and I will perfectly understand it if you think the risk is too high."

Very politely put. Of course she'd think him a coward if he decided to stay put. 

"Ok, I'll come with you. Let me just write a note for Mundungus."

He tore out a page of his crossword puzzle book and wrote:

'Got work to do at H. See you there. Thanks for everything. S.' Admittedly, it was not exactly a cryptic note, but he had no reason to believe it would fall into the wrong hands if he left it here on the table. Then he went and packed his one extra robe into a small bag. Varlerta got up, put her jacket back on, put his bag over her shoulder and approached the door. Sirius transformed into a dog and followed her out into the dark back garden. The frosty air surprised him. He had hardly been outside since summer. Suddenly he realised how much he had missed seeing the sky, smelling the sea and feeling cool grass under his paws. How he longed for a time when he could show his face again without the fear of being discovered, arrested or worse.

"Where did you put the bike?" she asked him. He led the way to the garden shed, and both went inside. Then he sat where the motorbike had to be and uttered a short 'woof.' She took a few drops of an Invisibility Revealing Potion, but obviously the Hiding Spell was stronger than her remedy. So she tried a spell or two, but looked at him questioningly when she did not succeed. He transformed back into a man and pulled his wand out of his pocket. (Learning that trick, namely that when transforming back into a wizard he was still wearing his clothes and had his belongings on him, had cost him several months of practise many years ago.) 

"_Visibitangi_!" he called. The motorbike reappeared at once. A little dust had settled on it over the weeks.

"I should have thought of that spell," Professor Varlerta commented. Then she pried loose the Shrink Box behind the saddle of the motorbike. She tapped the bike itself with her wand to make it fit into the box and put it inside. When she offered him a helping of the Invisibility Revealing Potion for the ride in the car, he accepted, because he knew he would feel uncomfortable if she could see him but he could see neither her nor himself.

"All set?" she asked him, approaching the door of the shed with the Shrink Box tucked under her arm. "Yes, I am," he replied. Once more in the shape of a dog, he followed her out to her car. She opened the passenger's door of her black Ford Anglia, put his small bag and her Shrink box into the boot of the car, then told him to wait. Out of the boot she took a blanket and placed it onto the leather of his seat, possibly in kind consideration for his bare canine rear end. He was glad of this when he jumped inside, as the interior of the car was quite cold. Someone obviously had taken considerable pains to restore this old vehicle, which nevertheless looked like it had seen better days. Besides the red leather upholstering, Sirius noticed that a strange kind of radio and a large compass had been installed. Professor Varlerta got into the driver's seat, pushed the button for the Invisibility Booster and gave the steering wheel an encouraging slap. He must have given her a questioning look, because while the car speedily rose into the air she turned to him and said:

"Yes, that's right, the car is Ensouled. Comes in very handy that it can think for itself, not the least since I'm used to having the steering wheel on the other side." 

After a few minutes of silence – as a dog, he wasn't really up to small talk – she reached over to the box standing in front of him, took out a battered plastic case and inserted a shiny plastic disk into the radio. It had to be a modern kind of record he realised when the speakers around him started to play a sequence of tacky rock ballads at him. A look at the small record's plastic case told him it was called 'Temple of the Dog.' Maybe that was her idea of a joke, he thought when he heard her hum along to the lines: "You call me a dog, well that's fair enough." 

The ride in the car seemed endless to him, maybe because he could not tell where they were going in the darkness. Looking out of the window was pointless. He tried not to think of Aurors with spyglasses or of soul-hungry Dementors but told himself everything would be fine. At one time he felt Professor Varlerta's hand on the fur of his back, but she took it away very quickly as if she had touched red-hot iron.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Black. I did not mean to be disrespectful – it is just that I almost forgot that you are not a real dog. You make quite a good impression of one as you are sitting next to me," she said with a little embarrassed laugh. Sirius made a mental note of always keeping his tongue in his mouth in her company from now on. 

Finally, he could feel the car descending. It was impossible to make out Hogwarts in the blackness that surrounded them, but Professor Varlerta patted her car's steering wheel.

"Look at my wonderful Drifter," she said with content in her voice. "Already knows its way home." Sirius could only make out a few lights. Not many seconds later, he felt the tires make ground contact. They had arrived without being caught. Varlerta got out and opened the door for him.

"I'd like to go to Dumbledore straight away and get it over with, because he may or may not be fuming. I'm afraid he will probably be asleep right now, though, so it will have to wait until tomorrow," she said. "I have a little guestroom in my building. It's not much, but at least it's a place to sleep in, and it's out of the students' sight. Do you want to come with me?"

He did his best to nod and followed her into the strange, new building. When the magical torches lit up, he saw a large room littered with musical instruments and other strange devices. Relieved to be in a place he could consider safe, he transformed back into a wizard. Meanwhile, Varlerta had opened the door to a tiny hall. He could see it held a narrow, steep spiral staircase and three more doors which led – he guessed – to a study, a bedroom and a bathroom. Through the two open doors he got a glimpse of walls completely covered by bookshelves in one room; the walls in the other were just as completely covered by an odd assembly of Muggle and witches' clothing held up there by magic. Varlerta politely motioned for him to mount the spiral stairs, so he did.

The guest room in the attic was large, but low; but for the middle passage, both of them had to bow their heads to stand in it. The furniture comprised a double bed and an empty chest standing open to air. Two small dormer windows overlooked the lake, if his sense of direction was right; presently, all he could see of the grounds was pitch-black darkness.

"It's all I can do for tonight. I'm sure tomorrow Dumbledore will think of a more comfortable place where it is safe for you to stay." With a wave of her wand she conjured up sheets which arranged themselves very properly on the bed. 

"It's wonderful, really. Thank you so much for everything," he hurried to say, glad he had finally made it back to Hogwarts, wondering if his caution of staying put all this time had been foolish. True, the _Daily_ _Prophet_ had not stopped reporting on the Dementors' search for him, but flying here without the least problem almost felt like a letdown.

"If you are hungry, I've got some food downstairs," she told him. "I knew we would return rather late, so I went to the kitchen elves to get some before I left."

"Wonderful," he repeated a little awkwardly. Careful not to hit his head anywhere on the low ceiling, he followed her back downstairs into the main room. There she emptied a small table of a strange flute, some broken steel strings as well as a pile of paper and moved the table to one of the two small sofas. From a basket she produced some cold pies, bread, cheese, fruit and several bottles of Butterbeer as well as a plate and some cutlery. 

Sirius remembered his good manners. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me," he said. Professor Varlerta sat down and opened two of the bottles with her pocketknife. "My pleasure," she replied nonchalantly and handed him one of the bottles. He sat down beside her, trying to say something smart, but failed.

"So you are a musician?" Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, Sirius. She only has a room full of musical instruments because she likes the way they smell, right? 

"Yep. It's my true passion in life. I used to play in a band..." Her eyes assumed a dreamy look; she sighed. "Of course, they've got someone else now that I had to come to Britain. It's almost as bad as losing a lover to someone else..." She grinned. "You must think me completely foolish when you hear me moping around like that."

"No, not at all." Of course, what did he know about losing a band, or losing a lover, for that matter? 

"But teaching certainly has its points, and I find research quite satisfying. I hope you will, too," she said. 

"Are you a Spellsearcher, too?" he asked.

"Not exactly," was her reply. "I'm trying to redevelop certain methods of Strengthening which are currently considered marginal to magic. The most important method is enhancing the strength of a witch or wizard by music. This is not a new branch of magic which I am developing, but probably the oldest there is. It is an immense field, and there is so much to learn. I spent some time in a Navajo village in Arizona and studied with an old Medicine Man who agreed to teach me some ancient music magic. My other mentor was maybe the last shaman of a tribe in Northern Mongolia, the most amazing witch I've ever met. The mighty lore of enhancing magic through music and through living in harmony with nature is dying out with the last Wise Men and Women of some of the more remote cultures of this world." 

She looked down at the floor for a moment. Her sadness was palpable. Surely there were ways to prevent this.

"Don't you think we can do anything about it? Preserve the knowledge of the wise, write it down, teach it to our children?"

Her gaze went up and straight into his face. "No, I don't think so. Things change. The world changes, for better or worse, but you cannot stop time in its tracks. Some things can be preserved for our immediate purposes, but they will not be the same. Even if you write down a piece of knowledge that is intended for oral tradition only, you diminish its magic. All I could do is collect titbits of lore for my personal use, but I don't deceive myself by thinking it's the same thing."

"So what brings you to England, then? Shouldn't you be studying with more shamans and collect more knowledge?" He felt overcome with uneasiness. There were important things to learn out there in the vastness of the world, things that might help them in the struggle ahead of them, and the time was running out. But here they were, sitting comfortably on a sofa, drinking Butterbeer. She took a sip out of her bottle, then said:

"Besides the obvious, you mean, the wish to do away with Voldemort? Well, the thing that brought me back here was stone circles."

He almost choked on a mouthful of the heavy, brown liquid. After her exciting report, she couldn't possibly mean this esoteric nonsense. "_Stone circles?" he asked as if he hadn't heard right._

She laughed silently at his question and let herself fall into the back of the sofa. "I know it sounds silly. But my old shaman teacher told me to. She said that I could not learn her magic as well as one of her people could have, because I could not talk to the local spirits of nature and they would not recognise me as one of their own. To a person of our culture, that sounds like nothing but superstition. I've never seen or heard a spirit of nature as long as I live, neither here nor anywhere on the tundra, but I believed her when she said she did. She told me to come here and find the forgotten magic of my people, which turned out to be our picturesque local stone circles. It's just the kind of thing she would have thought adequate – using the magic of music, of nature, of the very ground below us, the magic of our ancestors."

"That's amazing. What are the stone circles supposed to do?" 

"Imagine yourself as a Muggle battery, you know, a device that stores power. Imagine the stone circles as a re-charger. Think of certain ancient, sacred tunes as a way to switch the re-charger on. That is how it is supposed to work, anyways. – The guy you stayed with, Mundungus Fletcher?" He gave her a questioning look to make her continue. "Ten years ago he did some rather brilliant translations of some decaying old documents. By accident I found a book about it in a wizard pawnshop in Brooklyn. It's not like I believe in fate or anything, but when I read it I knew I wanted to find out more about stone circle magic. I never did, because I wasn't sure whether the time was ripe for me to return to England. But when I heard Voldemort was on the rise again, I knew it was high time. Now I'm almost prepared to start with my research in earnest. I can't wait, actually."

That made him think of something. "Harry wrote me that you hired Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley as your research assistants. He says they adore you. Will you take them to your stone circles?"

Varlerta beamed at him. She has a lovely smile, he thought. "Oh, he wrote that? That's really sweet. Actually, it's me who adores Ginny and Neville. They are both wonderful kids, full of possibilities. It's an infinite joy to see them develop their skills. Of course I'll take them to the stone circles. There's a small local one that's perfect for beginners like us – in a way, all of us still are. This circle has never been moved or destroyed – I'm sure you know the magic does not reside in the stones, but the circles mark places of special power. They also serve as eternal calendars for the dates when the power of the circle is highest. Like most stone circles, ours is one that responds to the full moon. Now that the kids have already learned so much, I decided to take them out there on the next full moon next Tuesday night. Last month I was there by myself on the full moon, the first after the equinox. It was amazing, like a surge of power that shot up into me. I'm not sure I would have made it through Halloween night without it." 

Her excitement was visible in her face and audible in the stream of words that flowed from her lips at increasing speed. He could see her point and tried to find an adequate answer, but did not know what to say. So he just smiled and nodded like an idiot. Maybe he wasn't very good at conversation anymore. The years of forced silence felt like a cobweb that stuck to his lips and had crept into his throat. Fighting against it was always some extra effort and took up a bit of extra time. While he had always been considered the incarnation of wit in his youth, his tongue now felt clumsy whenever it was time to converse. And of course, what was there to say about him that wasn't a dreary tale of years and weeks spent enclosed? Professor Varlerta gave him a scrutinizing look, then stifled a yawn with her hand. 

"Please excuse me for being so impolite, but I think I better get to bed. I've got to teach the second year Gryffindors early tomorrow morning, and they are really quite a handful. If I haven't got my wits about me, they are likely to blow each up other in class. And then I'd be facing a law suit."

She rose. "Please feel at home, help yourself to the bathroom and everything. In the morning I'll have the house-elves bring you breakfast. I hope I won't disturb you – I have to rise early – but of course, the lower floor of this building is completely soundproof, so you won't hear a thing. Anything else you need for the night?"

He got up and made a neat pile of the remainders of his meal just to have something to do with his hands. "No, not at all, you've already taken care of everything. Thank you very much."

"No problem. Well, goodnight then." And she disappeared through the door into the tiny hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Sirius descended the spiral stairs early the next morning, he just caught a glimpse of Professor Varlerta as she disappeared into the bathroom. He noticed her striped men's pyjamas and the messy cloud of hair around her head, so decided it might be polite to stay inside his attic room until he was sure she was dressed. When he dared to re-emerge, he found the building empty. At least now he could take a shower without worrying about his host. 

The doors of Professor Varlerta's bedroom and study were closed and he did not want to disturb her privacy even more than he was already doing. Unsure what to do with himself now that he was dressed and ready, but rather craving breakfast, Sirius had a further look around in the building's main room. Idly he touched a few of the instruments. When the conspicuous electric guitar responded to his touch like a wand, he concluded that it was a magical instrument. Professor Varlerta seemed to own piles of the strange little records he had seen her play the day before, but when he skipped through them he hardly recognised any names. As a young man he had liked rock music, just as she obviously did, but he had to realise his taste was fourteen years out of date. Instead he looked at the black-and-white Muggle photograph that apparently displayed Professor Varlerta with her band. In the foreground, an exceptionally handsome blond man was singing into a microphone. The bodies and manes of the long-haired male bass player and of Varlerta playing guitar were a bit blurred by motion. Sirius couldn't make out the sex of the slender figure behind the drum set but thought the drummer's face had a look of ecstatic pleasure. A logo in the lower right corner of the poster identified the band as "The Magic Mushrooms."

When he heard the door open, he turned around swiftly, feeling as if caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to do. Then a loud voice cried: "Sirius!" It took him a second to comprehend that the boy running up to him was Harry.

"How did you get here? Are you ok? Were you chased by Dementors? Did you fly back here on the motorbike?"

As always, Harry wanted to know everything at once. The boy roughly set down the bag he had been carrying – Sirius noticed that a dark, steaming stain of tea or something similar spread over the brown fabric as well as the carpet – and ran up to him. Godfather and godson sat down on one of the sofas and started at once to talk at the same time. It took them a few seconds until they could converse normally. Sirius told Harry how Professor Varlerta had picked him up at Mundungus' house so he could try to regain his skills as a Spellseacher. Harry talked about the attack on the castle at Halloween, about how the cold had affected his scar, but also about Mr. Pigmalgion, who had just sent him a new wooden pawn for Ensouling. Sirius felt absolutely at ease when he heard his godson talk excitedly about his chess figures devious attacks which had resulted in the demise of the first wooden pawn. Not for the first time, he wished he could spend more time with the boy. He wanted to have time to waste with him, to talk about daily, unimportant things, to joke with him and become his substitute father. This reminded him of his responsibilities. 

"Shouldn't you be in class right now, by the way?"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose I should be in Care of Magical Creatures now, but Professor Varlerta talked to Hagrid and sent me here. She asked me to take this bag here to her guest, and Hagrid did not object. I had no idea I would find you here. You think I should go back?"

"Maybe it's not that urgent," Sirius conceded. "Do you think there's my breakfast in the bag?"

It was indeed, and only half of it was soaked by spilled tea. After scraping the food onto yesterday's plate, Sirius was content to eat and let Harry do the talking. 

"... but playing Slytherin isn't what it used to be, you know. It's nothing to be proud of if Gryffindor flattens a team that's made up of nothing but green beginners. They were a laughing stock. The two Beaters actually crashed into each other during the match. Both fell off their brooms and hurt themselves, and there wasn't even a Bludger near them when they crashed. When I caught the Snitch I almost felt bad about it because the score was already a hundred and ninety to twenty, but I really wanted to end this shameful performance. So if we beat Ravenclaw, too, the cup is very likely to be ours, but it wouldn't be as glorious as it was two years ago."

"Such a nuisance when your opponents die out, isn't it?" Sirius replied with his mouth full. Harry laughed, the wonderful, untroubled laugh of a boy, as if he had never been attacked by Voldemort, had never witnessed scenes of the vilest Dark Magic or conversed with the shadows of his murdered parents. He will be alright, Sirius told himself.

After a while they heard the door open. "Oh, you are still here, Harry?" Professor Varlerta asked. "Shame on you. If you don't hurry, you will be late for Potions, won't you?" 

Harry glanced at his watch and sprang to his feet. "See you later, Sirius – that is, if you don't disappear again in the meantime," he said and approached the door.

"I won't, I promise," Sirius replied. He watched Professor Varlerta disappear into the hall and re-emerge laden with a pile of books less than a minute later. 

"I told Dumbledore you are here, and he said he'd like to see you in his office at six. He believes it's safe for you to roam the grounds as a dog," she said to him in passing. "Sorry, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, because the Hufflepuff seventh years are probably already waiting for me outside my classroom."

"Was he angry?" Sirius asked her.

Already in the open door, she turned, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Do you ever feel like a kid again because you've been sent to the headmaster for a scolding?" she replied enigmatically. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He enjoyed the smell of the wet grass, the sounds of the forest and the wind in his fur. How he had longed to be outside! Sometimes, life was so much easier as a dog. No need to talk, no expectations to fulfil; nothing to hinder his freedom. Too bad dogs did not wear watches, though. Even though he did not know the time, he ran back to the castle at the first hint at dusk because he did not want to miss his appointment with Dumbledore. When he ascended the steps to the front door, he saw it was closed. Since the attack on Halloween, the castle was protected by extra security. Harry had told him that students were not allowed outside after dusk even though night fell early on these autumn afternoons. In the grounds students were required to move in groups of no less than four, something Harry found very annoying because Ron, Hermione and he always needed a chaperone if they wanted to spend time outside now.

Looking up at the forbidding, closed door, Sirius let out a short bark. Would somebody let him in, or would he have to find another entrance? He knew from experience that this was not an easy task in these times of mistrust, so he was glad when someone opened the door for him. When he saw Filch stand in the open door, he swore a dog's curse under his breath, however. 

"Betake you away, you filthy beast," howled the caretaker. Filthy beast, indeed. He would take revenge on the cat some day. Impatient to get to Dumbledore, Sirius ducked low and slipped through the caretaker's legs, then ran up the stairs before Filch could follow him. The caretaker sent a few wailing curses after him.

In front of Dumbledore's gargoyle he stopped. Should he transform to say the password? He uttered a soft bark; the gargoyle let him in. Smart of Dumbledore, he thought and stood up on his hind legs to reach the door handle. Just as he entered, he realised he was interrupting a private conversation. 

"I understand your fears, Metheus, but I still cannot grant what you ask for. For all my disagreements with Fudge, this is still a school, not a fortress to protect wizards who fight for their viewpoint with violent means." Dumbledore was gesturing with his hands to underline the importance of his words.

"Most of us have renounced violence years ago, Albus. There are dozens of League members out there who have never hurt anybody, but now all of their lives are threatened by You-Know-Who. Please let me ..." Seeing the large, black dog stand in the door, Professor Quibster, the Muggle Studies teacher, stopped short.

Dumbledore acknowledged his presence with a nod, then got up to close the door behind him. "Sirius," he said. "It is very good to see you are well."

Sirius transformed back into a wizard. "I am sorry to interrupt your conversation. Am I early?"

"A bit," Dumbledore admitted, but his eyes creased into a smile. "But it doesn't matter. Will you sit down?" Quibster frowned noticeably; obviously he would have liked to continue his conversation with the headmaster in privacy. Sirius gave him an apologetic smile. The Muggle Studies teacher slightly bowed his head as a farewell to Dumbledore.

"I wish you'd reconsider, if only for the sake of the children," he said and walked out the door.

He looks old, Sirius thought as he saw the headmaster of Hogwarts rub two knotty fingers over his wrinkled forehead. 

"I hope you are well, and not too angry with me, Albus," he said. The first name of his former headmaster did not come easily to his lips, even though he knew that there was hardly any grown witch or wizard who was not on first-name terms with the wizard in front of him.

Dumbledore turned to him abruptly as if he had forgotten about Sirius' presence for a moment.

"No, why should I be angry?" he replied. A few lines of care smoothed out on his face. "I am very glad indeed to see you have made it here safely. We have to thank Varlerta and her Ensouled car for that, I take it?"

Sirius nodded. For some obscure reason his heart skipped a beat. "She picked me up. We had a smooth trip, no trouble at all."

Dumbledore's chest rose and fell heavily. Sirius thought he detected a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Maybe I was wrong to keep you hidden down there. After I made the mistake of sending you to find the Figgs, I did not want to make a second one that might result in your imprisonment or death. It seems to me that I have recently made a lot of mistakes."

He's never been one to doubt himself, Sirius thought. Something is weighing heavily on him, or, more likely still, many things are. He did not want to add to the headmaster's burden, so he said in the most cheerful tone he could manage:

"Don't worry about it, I was fine down there. When I got a chance to come, I took the risk, and with a stroke of luck I made it here safely. Now I hope to do something useful. Professor Varlerta said you want me to work as a Spellsearcher again."

"That would help us a great deal indeed," Dumbledore replied. "The question is, do you want to work as a Spellsearcher?"

He knows, Sirius thought. Feeling shame overwhelm him, he looked down at his feet shod in the black trainers Mundungus had gotten for him. Dumbledore knows that I wanted to be the one to break Icy Fingers, that I lied to him and stayed in that accursed laboratory because of my damned ambition. Why else would I have passed on the task of being the Potters' Secret Keeper?

"We were close," he replied. "We were almost there. A couple of days with the two of us working would have done it. I thought I could finish the work by myself. I was wrong. Now I have no idea if I will do any better if I get a second chance."

"It was not your fault," Dumbledore replied softly, offering stale comfort. "You meant well."

"Not well enough," Sirius heard himself say in a hoarse voice, and knew it was true when Dumbledore failed to utter any denials. Even if the difference was ever so small, he'd been tired of always being second best. There was this one bit of fame he had wanted for himself, and that desire had proved to be fatal. 

"We will build you a laboratory in the western wing," Dumbledore told him rather matter-of-factly. "That part of the castle is used very little; and we will put a Sealing spell on all your rooms, so you should be safe there. You'll get a room or two to live in next to the laboratory, too. As an Animagus, you can move about the castle and the grounds unnoticed. Maybe your godson will lend you James' remarkable Invisibility Cloak."

Sirius nodded mutely. It was better than he could have expected.

"You will need help," Dumbledore continued. "There is no professional Spellsearcher whom I can trust enough to ask, but some of the teachers will help you with their expertise. I am talking, of course, of Minerva, Severus and Varlerta." 

It was worse than he could have expected.

"I'm sorry to contradict you, Albus, but I don't think that is a very good idea. You see, Severus and I ... will probably never work together overly well."

"None of us can afford to be picky in these rough times," Dumbledore said sadly and shook his white-haired head. Sirius instantly regretted his objection. "Severus has never worked as a Spellsearcher, but is very talented at Countering curses. You should think twice before renouncing his help, even if it may not be willingly given."

Sirius bit his bottom lip to block an angry reply about where exactly Severus Snape could stick his unwillingly given help. Suddenly an idea formed in his mind which lifted up his sunken spirit.

"I would prefer a proper partner for my work. What about Remus Lupin?"

"Remus," Dumbledore mused. "He has never worked as a Spellsearcher before, has he?"

"He's taught Defence Against the Dark Arts at some school called Hogwarts, if that's any qualification to go by," Sirius said with a shrug, knowing he could needle the old headmaster with this sentence. He saw the wrinkled face crease into a smile and knew that better days were coming up for him. 

"I suppose if we can keep him in the western wing with you, out of the students' sight and hopefully out of harm's way, it should be alright," Dumbledore mused. "You would have to train him, of course. But actually – why not? I will owl him straight away."


	10. Harry

10 – Harry 

It wasn't a big deal to let Sirius have his Invisibility Cloak. The Cloak was one of Harry's most valued possessions, but when Dumbledore had asked him, he had agreed without a moment's hesitation. Just to think that Sirius would live at Hogwarts for a while, that he could sneak out and see him every day, made him happy. That Remus Lupin would come and be Sirius' Spellsearch partner was also good news. The only thing to worry about, it seemed, was Buckbeak. While the Hippogriff was safe and happy in the large garden of Lupin's ramshackle house in Wales, he could not stay there on his own. Lupin had owled that he did not know anybody to whom he could entrust the dangerous beast, so he would have to take him along when he came to Hogwarts.

Harry, Ron and Hermione decided to visit Hagrid in his hut and to tell him all the big news. After all, the half-giant, recently conspicuously lovesick, pining after Madame Maxime, was very much in need of cheering. They knew that besides being a member of Dumbledore's secret order, Hagrid truly cared for Sirius and Lupin, both of whom he had known since they were boys. And of course, their Care of Magical Creatures teacher dearly loved Buckbeak. 

"Bless his little beak, he's comin' home to me," Hagrid had commented with tears in his eyes. "Won't be any trouble to have 'im back here, he ain't hurting anybody, is he?" Even though it was always nice to see Hagrid overjoyed, Harry knew that the gamekeeper was once more unduly simplifying matters. Where would they keep the conspicuous Hippogriff which had been sentenced to death more than a year ago? 

"This castle will be bristling with secrets before the year is over," Ron said to Harry and Hermione when they hurried from Hagrid's hut back to the castle. Dusk was falling quickly, and they knew they had to be inside before dark. With Quidditch practice squeezed in after their afternoon lessons, there was precious little time left to visit Hagrid now. Fred and George were trailing behind the three of them. They had grudgingly consented to come along to comply with the 'students-out-in-the-grounds-only-in-groups-of-four-rule,' and had only too willingly agreed to wait for their brother and his friends outside Hagrid's hut. Harry had the impression the twins were cooking up some kind of mischief of their own again.

"These secrets could mean so much trouble," Hermione complained. "Just imagine, if we need to call a team of Aurors again, and they need to search the castle. They'd find" – her voice sunk to a whisper – "Snuffles, an illegal Hippogriff, and a werewolf that's not supposed to be here either. And they would find Snuffles and Lupin involved in secret research on Dark Magic, which is officially restricted by Ministry guidelines… . I dread to think what could happen. And of course, we have to expect another Death Eater attack any day, so we might need the Aurors to come again soon. What are we going to do then?"

"Always cheerful and optimistic, that's our Hermione," Ron commented. "Don't you think it's brilliant that Sirius and Lupin will do their research here?" 

"Keep your voice down," hissed Hermione. "These grounds have ears." Harry nodded in emphasis. There was no reason to mistrust Fred and George, who were wrapped up in conversation anyway, but certain secrets had to be well kept for safety reasons. 

"I'm only glad there's no Draco Malfoy anymore who could spy on us," he replied to Hermione's warning. "He'd be on our tracks any day now and would make sure Snuffles was caught again. But I agree with you, Hermione – it's not like we can trust everybody in this castle here."

In the distance, they saw the silhouettes of Professor Varlerta, Ginny and Neville leave the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher's building. Professor Varlerta was walking them back to the castle to make sure they were safe. Who makes sure she is safe if she is out here on her own, Harry wondered, or who makes sure that Hagrid is safe in his hut? He had come to regard the castle as a fortress which protected only those who lived inside of it. Everybody saw Death Eaters everywhere. They might be lurking behind the shrubs. They might be standing around on the hills west of the castle, preparing their next attack with the Icy Finger curse. Maybe they would do it at night when everybody was asleep. Maybe they would do it when Professor Varlerta was away in her building and could not protect the students. Or they might attack Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Snape first so that there was no one able to fight back. – Odd that he had come to think of Snape as a safety factor, he suddenly thought.

In the Entrance Hall, the three of them were greeted by a very angry-looking Professor McGonagall. 

"Potter and Weasley, you are fifteen minutes late," she said icily. "I've been searching the whole castle for you. What are you thinking of, to let Mr. Pigmalgion wait? He has a very demanding job and is doing you a great kindness by coming to see you. I wish you'd appreciate it instead of embarrassing me by your tardiness."

"Oh, Harry, Ron, don't tell me you had an appointment with the Ensouler and forgot," Hermione chided. "How can you be so negligent?" Ron made a face at her in response. High above them, Peeves was singing something along the lines of: "Hang them, quarter them, toast them and torture them!"

"Hurry, boys and make sure you apologize very properly," Professor McGonagall snapped at them and silenced Peeves with a sharp look. Harry did not dare to point out to her that they still had their practice pawns in their dormitory. Obediently, Ron and he headed off to the classroom where they were supposed to meet the Ensouler.

Facing the dignified elderly wizard was a trial indeed. His mild look of disapproval at their hasty apologies, his frown when he told them that boys would be boys, made Harry feel uncomfortable. Surely the Ensouler meant the opposite of what he said, namely that he expected Harry to act responsibly like an adult, that Harry should spend his time on improving his skills instead of on visiting Hagrid in his hut. Dumbledore had told Harry he had coped with the duties of a grown wizard when fighting against Lord Voldemort. He had made him a member of his secret order, had given him a place among the adults. And here he was, making excuses to Mr. Pigmalgion like a schoolboy. No wonder that he did not live up to the Ensoulers' expectations. He did not even have his lifeless pawn with him. Mr. Pigmalgion was not amused.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pigmalgion, but our pawns don't do anything yet, anyway," Ron told him. "We've played with them three times or more a week like you told us, but they still do not move at our command. To me, they do not look a bit more lively than when you gave them to us four weeks ago."

"Of course, I haven't even had mine for more than two weeks now, because it's a replacement," Harry conceded, ashamed of his chessmen's violent behaviour towards his first wooden pawn.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Potter, I do admit this sounds a bit disappointing," Mr. Pigmalgion told them. "But be that as it may, I still request that you fetch your pawns. I would like to see them for myself."

Ron offered to run to Gryffindor Tower to get the two sets of chessmen, and the Ensouler sent him away. Harry realised that Ron had chosen the more convenient alternative, because now that he was alone with Mr. Pigmalgion, the Ensouler subjected him to the closest scrutiny and cross-examination. Had he never accidentally Ensouled anything in his childhood? Did he have any idea why his chessmen had treated the wooden pawn with such outrageous brutality? What exactly had happened when Ron and he had flown the old Ford Anglia? 

Harry had the impression that his answers failed to satisfy, so he was glad when Ron returned, carrying Harry's chessmen in the wooden box, his own stowed away in the old woolly hat and the parchment envelope in which Harry still kept his replacement pawn. 

Mr. Pigmalgion first looked at Ron's pawn. Harry was envious to see it was not even scratched. Only too obviously had Ron bullied his other chess figures into leaving it alone. Mean fighters that they were, they seemed to respect – or fear – Ron enough to obey. When Harry had gotten his replacement pawn, he had given his chessmen a similar speech of warning, but the little marble figures had not been overly attentive. Harry had heard them giggle among themselves. The chessmen did not respect their owner, that much was certain. But even though Ron was so much better than he was in keeping his chessmen under control, he had not yet managed to Ensoul the wooden pawn. Mr. Pigmalgion turned the small, black figure in his hands for more than a minute, scrutinised it, held it to his ear and breathed on it. Finally he even shook it. Nothing happened. With a sigh, he put the lifeless pawn back into the chessmen's hat, blatantly disregarding the not-so-clean handkerchief in which it had been wrapped for extra protection.

Harry's pawn failed to be more promising. Mr. Pigmalgion spent far less time examining it, maybe because Ron's chessmen had made a better impression on his last visit, or maybe because Harry hadn't owned it for so long. When the Ensouler put the pawn back into the envelope, he couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed himself that no little miracle had happened since he had last touched it. But of course, Sirius was going to stay at Hogwarts, which should suffice in terms of miracles.

"Don't take it too hard, boys," Mr. Pigmalgion said to them, his tone suggesting the opposite once more. Harry noticed it was back to 'boys,' not Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter anymore. Obviously, their new adult status was a thing granted or withdrawn depending on how well they performed. After the Ensouler's curt farewells, Harry and Ron made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, their spirits a bit lower than before.

In the common room they found Hermione revising her Arithmancy homework, a purring Crookshanks on her lap, her quill poised over some complicated-looking graphs and drawings. When Ron suddenly slammed his woollen hat on her table, he managed to startle her enough to make her drop her quill. A Knut-sized ink stain spread on the piece of parchment. Ron's chessmen immediately began to complain; their screams and curses were muffled by the wool. Hermione glared at him.

"You are the most worthless piece of garbage in this whole school," she hissed. "Look at what you made me do! You just spoiled the work of a whole afternoon just because you think it's funny. Now I have to do the whole thing all over again." 

"Don't get all worked up, Hermione," Ron said, gazing down at the piece of parchment. "It's only an ink stain." He took his hat from the table. The chessmen seemed to be hitting it from the inside with their little flinty fists, obviously furious. 

"_Only an ink stain?" Hermione rose from her seat. Her flushed face was distorted with anger now.  Knowing what was good for him, Crookshanks fled. "'Only an ink stain,' he says.  I know you don't care about the quality of your work, but as a matter of fact, I do."  She sat down again, took a clean piece of parchment from her bag and started to copy her homework's heading on it with a trembling hand: 'Magical Strength Calculations in time and space.'_

"Hermione," Ron said with a sigh, cradling the wriggling hat in his hands, "look, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to spoil your homework; I just wanted to startle you a little. But it's only a tiny little ink stain. Professor Vector won't kill you for it. It's not like you really have to do it all over again now, you just want to make me feel bad."

Hermione did not look up from her piece of parchment, but continued copying. Harry could see her bottom lip trembling.

"Game of Exploding Snap?" Ron asked her with forced casualty. Hermione threw her quill down on the new piece of parchment in anger, causing an even bigger stain than the first one. She turned red as a beetroot and rose so rapidly that her chair toppled over.

"I know that the subtleties of Arithmancy are beyond your comprehension, but that doesn't give you the right to keep others from doing their work. These graphs have cost me several hours, and –"

"Look, Hermione, will you just calm down!" Ron was shouting now himself. "I _said I was sorry. But why do you always have to be that picky? It's not like your homework is illegible, is it? Just hand it in and say the stain was my fault. Say it's because your friend is the most worthless piece of garbage in this whole school."_

"Oh, Ron, you know I didn't mean that. I just said it because you made me so upset. You see, I really enjoy Arithmancy, and Professor Vector is such a great teacher. I'd simply hate to hand in this mess you made of my homework." 

Ron's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I made you upset, didn't I? Well, maybe if you weren't such an insufferable teacher's pet, you wouldn't go into hysterics that easily, would you?" 

Hermione inhaled deeply several times, then said in a mean, soft voice: "By the way, how is Ensouling coming along, Ron?" 

Harry decided it was definitely time to leave Gryffindor Tower. He turned on his heels and went through the Portrait Hole, hearing Ron's loud tirade of rage behind him. Just when he turned around the corner of the corridor, Hermione's high-pitched scream of an answer caught his ear: "What in the world does Victor Krum have to do with this?" 

Harry wandered around aimlessly for a bit. He would have liked to see Sirius again, but his godfather would have to spend at least one more night in Professor Varlerta's attic before his own rooms were ready. The corridors were empty, the staircases deserted. Glancing at his watch, Harry realised he should return to the Gryffindor common room soon if he did not want to get into trouble, but he would rather not witness any more of his friends' row. Why did Ron and Hermione always have to fight this way? He suspected that Ron might have feelings for Hermione that went beyond mere friendship and that Ron might even be jealous of Victor Krum, but that did not really excuse his behaviour, did it? Harry turned into the dark hallway that led to Professor Flitwick's classroom, amazed that he had walked this far without noticing. Its large windows were framed with shallow niches holding window seats. Looking out, he could see a few lighted windows in the walls of the castle's east wing. The moon, approaching fullness, shone through the black criss-cross of empty branches. Nobody was shouting here, or uttering insults to hurt a friend. The silence was a blessing, soothing his ears, just like the velvety semi-darkness was a comfort to the eyes.

Suddenly Harry heard a very soft noise in the niche next to him, a breathing sound made by another living being. He sneaked up to it and saw Cho Chang sitting cross-legged on the wooden windowsill. In the faint light of the moon he noticed that her face was moist with tears. She was crying noiselessly. Harry felt he should leave her in peace, but she was already looking up. For a minute, neither of them moved in any way. Harry wondered if he should leave, but could not bring himself to just walk away. Then he saw Cho change position on the windowsill. She shifted, making room for him on the broad plank. Harry hoisted himself up and sat beside her. He watched Cho wipe her eyes with her sleeve.

I should say something now, he thought. 'It will be alright.' No, it will not. Cedric won't come back to life, will he? 'Don't be sad.' But she is, and telling her not to be is not the best way to show that I care about her. 'You will get over him.' Great. Sounds like I think she doesn't really care that much about him. 'If you need somebody, here I am.' To do what? To make her forget her grief? To take Cedric's place? What else could he say? 'What goes up must come down.' – 'There should be laughter after pain, there should be sunshine after rain.' – 'Don't you cry-y tonight, there's a heaven above you, baby.' Certainly platitudes from Ginny's collection of old records, most of which she had inherited or nicked from Bill and Charley, would not be very helpful here.  

Harry would have liked to touch Cho, to stroke her shoulder or her shiny black hair, to show her he cared for her, but somehow he was sure it would not be a good idea to touch her now. As he could not think of anything intelligent to say, he just sat there and watched her stare into nothingness. It seemed to him that a very long time passed. Cho did not look at him, and he wondered if he should just go away, if she would rather be alone. After a while she finally turned to him, gave him the faintest of smiles, slipped off the windowsill and walked off into the direction of Ravenclaw Hall. Harry looked after her until the darkness of the corridor had swallowed her. Then he got off the windowsill as well and went back to Gryffindor Tower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning during Transfiguration, Harry noticed that Ron was unusually quiet, while Hermione sported slightly red eyes. Both seemed to avoid each other's eyes; if they talked, they talked to Harry. They spent the whole day ignoring each other. Harry was already starting to worry that another era of non-communication might break out, but at some point during their classes, his friends must have reached a kind of truce: when Pansy Parkinson tried to sneak some Potion Spoiler into Hermione's cauldron, Ron spotted her and deftly caught the Slytherin girl by her wrists before she could execute her plan. Harry hurried to pry the little powder-filled paper bag out of her hands and let it disappear in the depth of his robes' pockets. Hermione gave both of her friends big smiles of gratitude. All this happened in silence, because Professor Snape was standing only a few desks away, frightening Lavender Brown with some very detailed instructions concerning circular stirring movements. The Potions Master must have noticed their little struggle nevertheless. He turned around and approached them with a dark scowl; the green of his hair rapidly grew in intensity. 

"Weasley! Potter! What on earth do you think you are doing, harassing Miss Parkinson in this fashion?"

Conflicts related to Wheeze Potion Spoiler were to be kept among students; such was the unwritten law of Snape's dungeon. All students had a packet or two of the fine, crystalline powder somewhere in their robes' pockets, and nobody wanted – terrifying thought – to be caught with it. Pansy Parkinson, however, now resorted to ear-piercing screams and struggled violently to get out of Ron's grip, probably because her robes' pockets did not hold any more of the forbidden substance. Even though Ron let Pansy go immediately, Snape was at his side in a moment, took hold of his arm and pulled him back.

"Weasley, I will not tolerate this kind of brawl among students in my dungeon! Potter, maybe you should concentrate on your less than satisfying work instead of participating in such disgraceful behaviour! I deduct ten points from Gryffindor for each of you!" Snape was flushed with anger now; his hair had turned a dangerous colour. Harry could see the smug look on Pansy's face. He would have liked to slap her.

From experience Harry knew that arguing would do no good here. A search of his pockets would unearth Pansy's little bag of Potion Spoiler, but it certainly wasn't a piece of evidence that would convince Snape of Harry's innocence. Ron must have thought along the same line, because he simply bowed his head in pretended submission and did not talk back, though he clenched his fists tightly. Snape gave the two of them another furious stare, then let matters rest with his punishment. When he had turned his attention away from them to help Pansy Parkinson with her potion, Hermione whispered her thanks to Harry and Ron.

"I'm sorry you got into trouble because of me," she said, smiling at both of them. Ron hesitated only for a brief moment, then replied: 

"No problem, any time." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After classes had finished, Professor McGonagall caught Harry in the hallway just at the moment when Ron and he left the common room to head off to Quidditch practice.

"Will you please come with me for a minute, Harry? I'd like to show you something." 

Harry handed Ron his freshly laundered practice robes and his Firebolt. He asked him to take his things to the pitch and tell Angelina he would come as soon as possible. Professor McGonagall gave him an approving nod. Harry had a fairly good idea what she wanted from him, and as it turned out, he was right. The Transfiguration teacher took him to the castle's west wing to show him where Sirius would live and work.

It wasn't as if the west wing was a deserted part of the castle; it contained Professor Quibster's classroom, students had to pass through it on their way to Professor Sinistra's Astrology Tower, and if Harry's sense of direction was right, Snape's dungeon was right underneath the west wing. The part of the building contained a number of classrooms, though most of them were unused. Some of the closed doors they passed were labelled 'Danger!' or even 'Abyss!,' while a faint hodgepodge of music was trickling through another door. Harry was curious to see the laboratory Sirius had talked of. As he rushed along to keep up with Professor McGonagall's rapid steps, he tried to imagine what a Spellsearcher's laboratory looked like. It could not contain cauldrons, retorts or Petri dishes, because Sirius would not try to find a counter-curse for Icy Fingers by any method resembling potion making, would he? Harry tried to imagine some strange machines or exotic magical devices, but could not think of any that would be needed for a Spellsearcher's task. How did you find a spell or a curse, for that matter? Of course, he would find out very soon, Harry thought as Professor McGonagall tapped her wand against the keyhole of a door to open the Sealing spell.

The Spellsearchers' laboratory was a spacious room; its large windows would catch plenty of light during the day and now looked upon a glorious purple and orange sunset. In the twilight of the room, Harry could make out a man sitting at a table. Otherwise, the laboratory did not seem to hold many things.

"_Lumos_," Sirius' voice said, and a small magical lamp on the table lit up. Harry could see that besides the man and the table, there was absolutely nothing in the Spellsearcher's laboratory. He smiled in welcome when he saw Harry and Professor McGonagall. 

"I think Harry should know where to find you, Sirius," the Transfiguration teacher said. "You've had so little chance to see each other, and...." To Harry's surprise, she actually blushed and looked at her feet.

"That's very kind of you, Minerva," Sirius replied with a warm voice. "I'd be glad if Harry found the time to visit me here every now and then."

"Of course I will," Harry said and took a few steps until he stood directly at Sirius' side. "I'll come and see you every day!" Quidditch practice, something said in the back of his head. You should be at Quidditch practice now. Angelina will be fuming. Harry told the voice to be quiet. They had already scored two spectacular wins this season, and would not play Ravenclaw for ages. Ravenclaw...

"I'm sure you are due in practice now, Harry? Because you can always come and visit me later or on the weekend," Sirius said. It made Harry smile; he realised that Sirius must know about Quidditch, that he must understand how important it was to be down at the pitch with your team at practice time.

"I just wanted to show you the way to the laboratory," Professor McGonagall told him. "To break the Sealing Spell, tap your wand at the keyhole – twice just above it, once underneath it, and twice at its left side." Harry nodded to show her he had understood and would remember her instructions. With a promise to return with Ron after practice, he left.

Quidditch practice on a November night was not something Harry would have called a pleasure. The scarcely lit pitch was rainy and muddy, and both Ron and Harry were exhausted and rather damp when they returned to Sirius' rooms. After he had magically opened the door in the way Professor McGonagall had shown him, Harry felt his jaw drop: Instead of the room he had left about two hours earlier, Ron and he were looking into a large dome of swirling green and yellow lights. In the middle of it, underneath an arch of silvery shooting stars, sat Sirius, Dumbledore and Remus Lupin on an odd assortment of chairs. When he saw Harry and Ron, Sirius clapped his hands and shouted: "_Losevo_!" The dome of light faded and went out like a candle. Sirius relit the little lamp on his table. Now Harry and Ron looked into the almost empty room Harry had seen before. They went over to the three men and exchanged greetings with them. However, it was obvious that Sirius, Dumbledore and Lupin had other things to discuss. Harry and Ron quietly sat down on a bench in the corner and listened to their conversation.

"I am glad to see you have not lost your skill in the past fourteen years," Dumbledore said to Sirius with a content look on his face. Harry's godfather shook his head.

"You know that conjuring up the Atmoglisa Magica is only the very first prerequisite for Spellsearching. I may not remember the rest of my craft just as well."

"I have brought you something which might be useful to you, Sirius," Lupin said and reached into a small crate that stood at his feet. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound book and placed it into Sirius' hand. Harry's godfather looked at the volume for a moment and ran a finger over its cracked leather cover. Then he opened it and flipped through the pages, stopping here and there for a few moments to read. Over his shoulder, Harry could see that the book must be some kind of diary or log, because its pages were covered with several kinds of handwriting. 

"It's our old research log," Sirius said hoarsely. He touched the pages and smiled very faintly, then went over to Harry and carefully gave him the book as if he was handing over a delicate treasure. "It's the log your parents and I kept in our Spellsearching days." Then he turned to Lupin. "Where on earth did you find this?"

"Actually, Arthur Weasley stole it for me out of the Ministry's archives. It has been buried there in a corner of the cellar for all these years. Apparently, nobody ever saw the necessity to consult it, so Arthur Weasley said he didn't think it would be missed."

The log was heavy in Harry's hand. By flipping through the pages, Harry could tell that about three-quarters of the pages were covered by hand-written log entries; the rest remained empty. Ron was looking over his shoulder now, curious and obviously not taken aback in the least by the information that his father had stolen a historical document out of the Ministry's cellar. Harry opened the book at the very beginning, eager to read what his parents had written. The first page was covered in neat, straight letters that looked almost like they were printed.

_Dec. 17th, 1978  _

_Sirius Black, Lily Evans and I (James Potter) started research on a counter curse for Icy Fingers today. Albus Dumbledore and Gilbert Wimple discussed the task with us and gave us the information they have on the curse, which is relatively little. Icy Fingers is the curse of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Which words or spell are needed to work the curse nobody can tell us, and it's not like the Aurors ever caught a living Death Eater to interrogate. We will have to find out all these things for ourselves before we can start looking for a way to counter the curse. _

_Icy Fingers is a curse which causes wizards to take harm or die of cold. At the same time it paralyses them magically as well as physically; those attacked cannot properly defend themselves. The only thing that has been used successfully against it is a standard Hex-Reflex. This way of countering is not without its flaws, though: Hex-Reflex demands a great magical strength and, how Dumbledore termed it, 'a strong determination to do battle magic.' However, strength and determination are severely diminished by an Icy Fingers attack. Consequently, those attacked by the curse are those least able to counter it. For this reason, Icy Fingers is a means to attack and harm large groups of wizards who would normally be able to defend themselves even against packs of Death Eaters._

The next entry was done in a generous, loopy hand that somehow looked more like a flowery decoration than like writing, but at the same time was perfectly legible.

_Icy Fingers has so far claimed 27 victims. The worst attack was the one against Hogwarts on the 29th of September this year. Eight students and the Defence Against the Dark teacher, Professor Carenta, died; Dumbledore was severely hurt and did not recover until last week, if indeed he has recovered. Other attacks on the Ministry and on private homes have killed several witches and wizards who were considered to be very powerful. There are rumours that the curse affects the strong worse than the weak, or at least that its paralysing cold is worse if powerful witches or wizard are among the victims. Is the curse fed by the power of its victims?_

_Very good question, Lily. Let me add: If so, is the curse a means for the Death Eaters to take control of their victims' magical power?_

The last line was done in the scrawl that Harry recognized as Sirius' handwriting. He cast a look at his godfather, who was wrapped up in conversation with Lupin and Dumbledore. As if he felt Harry's gaze, Sirius looked up at him and nodded, maybe to tell Harry to go ahead and read his parents' old research log.

 Seeing that the next pages were mostly covered with spell formulas and calculations that looked suspiciously like Arithmancy, Harry flipped through part of the book quite superficially. Lily, James and Sirius had used the log as a means of communication as well as keeping it as a record of their work. Many times one of them had commented on an entry of another, or asked a question at the end of his or her entry. The other two had then tried to answer the question. However, at first the three Spellsearchers had apparently not gotten very many results. Looking at the dates of the entries, Harry saw that throughout all the spring of 1979, the three of them had systematically tried various spells and hexes, but had not come any nearer to finding out how Icy Fingers worked, let alone how it could be countered. On May the 3rd, he found an entry that was far more interesting than unintelligible formulas, however. Sirius had written:

_I need to write a few cheering words to lighten up this dreary log. Among the humdrum days in this laboratory, your wedding was a truly great event. Now that it's back to the failures of Arithmancy and spell work, thinking of the party, the many guests and of course of the charming and gorgeous couple joined in matrimony, gives me new energy. Let's get this over with now, so we can save the world as quickly as possible, and you two finally find the time to go on a proper honeymoon. Lots of luck, and may your love light the way for all of us!_

Underneath, James had printed:

_Glad you finally got over your hangover, Sirius. Don't worry, as soon as we've solved this icy puzzle, we will go on a honeymoon and – – – –_

The last few words had been made illegible by a determined hand. Lily's loopy handwriting commented: 

_James! Shame on you! Such language in a scientific document!_

Harry tried to imagine his parents working with Sirius in a laboratory every day, looking for a way to block the deadly curse, even postponing their honeymoon until after they had finished their work. That time had never come, he knew. They had gone on and on with their work until they had to go into hiding. Sirius had talked about Lily reading numerous books on Spellsearching even with her baby son at her breast (this thought felt quite strange to Harry), while James and Sirius had continued their laboratory work. 

A few pages later, James had written:

_July 6th _

_It looks like we have a chance to solve this puzzle now. Dumbledore has a spy among the Death Eaters, someone we all know well (eugh!). For the sake of safety, we are asked to assign a code name to this person in every written document. The informant, who henceforth will be known as the Git in our notes, has worked the curse himself (probably murdering hundreds of people with it). He condescended to tell us that it is worked by the command 'Glaciera.' It is a difficult curse; several Death Eaters must combine their powers for an attack. According to his information (which may or may not be correct, because we cannot consider the Git to be even averagely intelligent), the attackers neither control nor absorb their victims' powers. Therefore it is interesting to know what happens to the magical powers of victims who find out the curse leaves them without any resources to defend themselves. (The Git does not know, naturally.)_

_Tomorrow the Git (who may or may not be a double agent – I am surprised that Dumbledore trusts him) will teach us how to work Icy Fingers on a curse model basis. However despicable, he will probably bring about the breakthrough we all have been hoping for – if he does not find some crooked way to betray us all._

 "I think the Git is Snape," Harry whispered to Ron. "He used to be Dumbledore's spy among the Death Eaters, and my parents and Sirius really seem to hate their informant."

"You are right, Harry, we did not like him very much," Sirius said over his shoulder. Then, prompted by a sharp look from Dumbledore, he conceded: "His information was very helpful to us at that time, of course."

"He will be helpful to you again," the headmaster told Sirius in a firm voice. "Icy Fingers is a matter of life and death again. It is not tolerable that you let your work be impeded by a personal antipathy. Severus Snape has been loyal to me and to Hogwarts for many years now. It is my explicit wish that you start cooperating, and that _includes_ not calling him the Git anymore. Actually I am surprised that he is not here yet. I asked him, Minerva and Varlerta to come here tonight, so we can plan our further proceedings." 

Sirius reached for the log, and Harry handed it back to him. He watched his godfather bury his attention in the book, maybe to block out Dumbledore's chiding. Sirius seemed to read pages at random as if skipping through time. Harry noticed that the room had gone silent. All of them watched the dark-haired wizard run his fingers over the handwriting of his dead friends, his face as immobile as a mask.

The knock on the door startled all of them, even though they had been expecting it. Professor McGonagall welcomed Lupin back to Hogwarts immediately after entering, while Professor Varlerta looked around the room in wonder, maybe trying to find out what devices made this bare place a laboratory. Snape's bluish hair rapidly turned toad green when he saw Sirius and Lupin; he cast a hateful glance at Harry and Ron. Sirius fought to keep a straight face very briefly, but then he laughed out loud. Even Lupin could not conceal a chuckle. 

"Nice colour, Snape," Sirius commented. "Since when have you become that fashionable?"

"Let's just stick to business, Black," Snape snarled. "If you and your silly friends had not spent your time messing around so much, we could have solved this problem fifteen years ago."

Sirius went red with anger. He tried to rise from his chair, but Lupin restrained him.

"Sirius! Severus! Stop this at once!" The commanding voice was Professor McGonagall's. "It makes me ashamed to see you haven't matured after all these years. This is not the time and place for your pranks and personal dislikes. Nor is Icy Fingers part of a House Cup competition."

"You can't possibly mean the competitive house system of this school impedes students' abilities for teamwork, Minerva," Professor Varlerta commented dryly. Ron chuckled behind his hand, but the other adults did not take her up on her challenge of Hogwarts' educational philosophy.

Professor Dumbledore raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "The reason I asked you to come here – that is, those of you whom I have asked, because Ron and Harry have come without invitation –" A twinkle of his eyes told Harry and Ron that he did not mind them there. 

"The reason, in short, is that I believe we have a chance to finally solve this old puzzle if we all work together. What we need is a reliable counter curse for Icy Fingers, preferably one that blocks the curse completely. All of us have some special talent that may prove to be crucial to our task. Sirius has worked on this problem many years ago and tells me he was once close to finding a counter curse. Remus has never worked as a Spellsearcher, but is experienced in fighting curses and will receive training from Sirius. Moreover, being without further duties, both wizards will have more time to devote themselves to the task ahead than Hogwarts staff members." Harry saw Snape sneer at Sirius and Lupin when Dumbledore hinted at their lack of employment. While Lupin looked at his feet, Sirius' returned Snape's gaze with an air of defiant challenge. Dumbledore resumed:

"Severus not only knows how to work the curse himself, but his duelling experience has also taught him many things about curse countering. Together with Minerva and me, he successfully worked a Hex-Reflex that caused the attacking Death Eaters to flee on Halloween." Snape pretended not to notice that Dumbledore was talking about him; he nestled at his left sleeve, his gaze focussed on something far away. 

"Minerva and I can offer this team not much more than our decades of experience and our assistance in your experiments. Spellsearching is not among our crafts. Neither is Varlerta a Spellsearcher, and her Shielding and Strengthening methods are quite general means of protection. For Icy Fingers we need a more specific counter-curse. However, Varlerta has experimented with magic for many years. Even though her methods may be considered unorthodox by some, her research on audio magic has wielded some remarkable results. Maybe we all need to think along crooked rather than straight lines for this task."

"I hope we can all fulfil your expectations, Dumbledore," Lupin said with a rueful smile. "I've never had any proper training as a Spellsearcher and would not like to slow down the experts with my ignorance as well as with my – er – lunar cycles."

"Oh, Remus," Professor McGonagall said and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I know you are a talented and thorough worker, and I believe you will do quite nicely. So will everybody else in this room, if we all cooperate," she continued in a very firm voice. 

"I will prepare a demonstration of the work we did fourteen years ago for tomorrow night," Sirius replied, ignoring Snape's sneer. "I was afraid I forgot too much, but of course the log will be a great help. Arthur Weasley should get an Order of Merlin for stealing it. Remus, I'll also start teaching you how to conjure up an Atmoglisa Magica, which is the basic instrument in a Spellsearcher's laboratory, and...."

"Oh, I've heard of those," Professor Varlerta interrupted him, her face animated with interest. She shifted on her chair to look Harry's godfather in the face. "I'd really like to see how they are done. Can I come, too?"

Sirius absentmindedly turned the pages of the log in his hand without looking at them. "Actually, the Atmoglisa Magica is a Spellsearcher's secret protected by a law. I'm not really supposed to show you."

"For someone who's wanted dead or alive you're quite picky when it comes to breaking laws, don't you think?" she said, curling her upper lip very slightly. "It would be helpful to know about it if I am to assist you in your task."

Sirius shrugged, then turned to Dumbledore with a question in his eyes. The old headmaster thoughtfully tugged at his long, white beard. "I don't see how it could do any harm. You three can meet early in the evening. The rest of us will come around at eight for your demonstration, Sirius." He rose from his armchair, leaning heavily on its back for an instant. "Old men are supposed to be insomniacs, but I find I need more sleep the older I get, not to mention more food. I suppose I will leave you young people to your merry chatter now."

Professor McGonagall and Snape rose and left with the headmaster, maybe because they did not want to be counted among the merrily chatting young people. Lupin introduced himself to Professor Varlerta as a predecessor of her, and soon they were involved in a conversation about teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. Professor Varlerta did not seem to be perfectly up to date about Kappas and was visibly delighted she could complete her knowledge with Lupin's help.

Harry held the research log of his parents in his hands once more, then returned it to his godfather. "You can take it when I'm done with it," Sirius told him, while Ron was breathing through his nose to suppress a yawn. "Let me just copy the important things out of it, and after that it will be yours. If I look at the pages, it's as if your parents were sitting next door and were going to come in to talk to me any minute. The log will tell you more about them than a hundred photographs." 


	11. Ginny

11 – Ginny 

Ginny's last class on Tuesday afternoon was Transfiguration. When Professor McGonagall said they were closing twenty minutes early because she had to help with some obscure spell research, Ginny could not believe her own ears. The idea of Professor McGonagall ending class early was unheard of, but here she was, standing outside Professor Varlerta's building well before she was expected. She felt excited. The air was clean and icy. The moon was full. They were going to the stone circle tonight. This was the real thing, this was magical research, and it wasn't as if any old fourth year student got a chance to experience some brand new kind of magic up close. 

The words 'Rock 'n Roll High School' opened the door of Varlerta's building. Ginny found her mentor in the 'music laboratory,' talking to a portrait of a woman Ginny had never seen before.

"I know, I know," Varlerta said to the picture leaning against the sofa. "What I'm trying to tell you is that you knew me in your future – I mean, you are going to know me as your grandniece, but that was in the past – blimey, this is getting difficult!"

"Varlerta?" Ginny inquired, not sure how to react to this strange, new form of behaviour. The teacher turned abruptly, blushed a little and said: 

"Oh, Ginny, I didn't hear you enter. See what I found? It's a portrait of my grandaunt Anat. The only trouble is, it was painted decades before she even knew me, so now the portrait won't recognize me."

Ginny took a closer look at the picture. It showed a youngish woman with a pinned-up tumble of mahogany coloured curls, dressed in red velvet with a white lace collar. She looked nice, Ginny decided, even if she was a little on the plump side. The woman was holding a large lute decorated with an elaborate design of roses. Now that Varlerta had turned to Ginny, the woman in the portrait had started to play her instrument. All her attention was focussed on her left hand moving over the frets of the lute. A soft, eerie music came from the painted strings.

"It's amazing," Varlerta said, her face animated with excitement. "On the weekend I had some business to do in the western wing, and I passed a room from which I could hear music. I asked Dumbledore what was inside, and he said it was Hogwarts' collection of noisy paintings: Pictures that have been taken down from the walls because they make too much noise. People get upset when a painting won't shut up, you know. When Dumbledore showed me the collection, I saw that most of the noisy paintings were musicians, so of course that got me interested. You can't imagine my surprise when I found this picture. I didn't even know a painting of my grandaunt existed. Of course, I took it with me at once. I don't mind her playing, and if I do, my stereo will always be louder." She grinned wickedly. 

Ginny's eyes scanned the framed oil-on-canvas again. On the right bottom corner of the gilt frame, the words 'Anat Rosier' were engraved. Rosier, she thought. Somewhere she had heard that name before, although she could not remember where.

Varlerta started to put a few things into a backpack. When Neville arrived, she asked him whether he had his wand and flute on him, then sent him back to the castle for a warm jumper to wear under his cloak, as they would be spending the better part of the night outside. Ginny was glad she had remembered to bring warm clothes. They were already stowed away in Drifter's boot, along with her shaman drum. Varlerta zipped her guitar into its nylon bag and put freshly recharged batteries into her battery-powered amplifier. Suddenly she shouted: "Look, there's the vermin!" It startled Ginny, who had been listening to the soft lute-playing of the portrait. She turned around to look at the thing Professor Varlerta was pointing at. In mid-air, half a foot above the ground, a rat was floating. Ginny guessed that it had been caught in an invisible, magical rattrap. 

"I thought I'd seen rats out here, but now I know for sure," the teacher commented wryly. "That's what I get for living out here instead of in the castle. Maybe I should buy a cat. I really hate rats, you know. Let's put this yucky little fellow out of its misery." She raised her wand.

"No, don't kill it," Ginny shouted. Varlerta looked at her with a frown.

"Why not? It's a rat, Ginny, and rats are vermin. I don't want them in my music laboratory. If you'd ever been to some of the less genteel areas in New York City, you would understand why I absolutely loathe them."

"They are magical animals," Ginny argued. The teacher could not just murder this little rodent; she could not let her. "Please don't kill it, set it free. I hate it when people kill animals. And I think rats are cute. My brother used to have one that looked very much like this one." Ginny knelt down to look at the rat in its magical trap. It stared at her with its black button eyes; its ragged whiskers trembled violently, and its thick, naked tail thrashed around weakly within the invisible boundaries of the trap. Behind her, the door opened. Neville came back in, his jumper in his hand. "They are, aren't they, Neville?" Ginny asked him. "Rats are magical animals, just like toads!"

"Sure," Neville said vaguely, probably without knowing what Ginny was talking about. He held up a number of objects to show them to his teacher. "Professor Varlerta, I think I've got everything: Wand, flute, recorder, jumper, cloak, warm socks, boots. Look, my Remembrall – it's not red at all."

"That's ok then," Varlerta replied. "But I think Ginny just asked your opinion. She thinks this rat should live, and I think it should be killed. It looks old and sick. We could give it a quick and painless death. What do you think, Neville?"

Ginny bent closer to the squealing rat. Slightly swaying in its invisible prison, it was probably terrified. The rodent did not look very healthy indeed; its skin sported many bald patches, and it had lost its right front paw. "It's just a poor little fellow," she argued. Neville did not offer an opinion at all. Recently Ginny had noticed that he was usually quite eager to please Varlerta, and – odd as it was – eager to please her as well. Now her request for his opinion in a case of disagreement might have put Neville into conflict with himself. 

"Alright, alright, kids," Varlerta said with a little laugh. "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Rattiness for this piece of vermin, if you really think so. We'll set it free. But let's take it along to the stone circle. I don't want rats in this building, and if we free this one miles from here, there's a good chance it won't come back. Anyways, it's time to get going." 

Ginny took the invisible rattrap with its occupant inside in her hand. As she got up, something slipped out of her robes' pockets. Before she could set the rattrap back down and retrieve the object, Professor Varlerta had put one booted foot on the little paper bag. The teacher stooped to pick up and examine her finding.

"Well, well, well, Ginny, what have we got here?" Ginny almost dropped the trap. The object under Varlerta's scrutinizing gaze was none other than a forgotten, crumpled bag of Potion Spoiler. I'm finished, Ginny thought desperately. They will expel me. Probably they will expel the whole family and ban at least the next three generations of Weasleys from Hogwarts. 

"Wheeze Potion Spoiler," Professor Varlerta read. "If I'm not very much mistaken, this is exactly the substance Professor Snape is dying to get hold of."

Ginny felt tears well up in her eyes. "Please Professor Varlerta, I didn't do anything! Don't give this to Snape. He will kill me, expel me, disembowel me – _please, don't!" She tried to give her eyes a pleading doe look. _

"Don't make it sound like Professor Snape is a monster," Varlerta chided. Through the blur of held back tears, Ginny could see Neville turn his eyes heavenwards. Don't say a word, Neville, you will only make matters worse, she thought. During the first week of their apprenticeship with Varlerta, the teacher had unambiguously told them that they were free to insult Professor Snape whenever they liked, provided they did so in the Gryffindor common room where she could not hear them. 

"Please don't cry, Ginny," Varlerta said now and put a hand on her shoulder. "You see, this is a serious matter. This stuff –" she was holding up the bag of Potion Spoiler – "has been giving us a lot of trouble. Students have been putting it into important potions, and recently we couldn't trust any potion even if we really needed it. Remember Professor Lupin, the werewolf, the teacher you said you liked so much? He needs a potion to stay sane when he Transforms, or he'll become a danger to everyone around here. If his potion is spoilt, it may not work properly. We can only hope that the potion he just drank was unspoilt, because as you know there will be a full moon tonight. For next month, we should be able to do more than just hope, we should be prepared. – All Professor Snape wants is to analyse this stuff, so he can cook up a neutraliser. I really have to give it to him."

Through her tears, Ginny nodded, clutching the invisible rattrap. Yes, she could see Varlerta's point, but she knew she was in for big trouble. Varlerta smiled at her and went through the door into her study for a moment. When she returned, she had a plain, white Muggle envelope in her hand. She opened the packet of Potion Spoiler and let the crystalline powder trickle into the envelope. Then she tapped the empty paper bag with her wand and made it dissolve into a cold, blue flame. 

"See, Ginny, there's no need to get upset," she told the girl and conjured up a handkerchief for her apprentice. "No Ginny, no Wheeze, no Weasley – all Professor Snape needs to know is that this is the substance he's been looking for." She left the envelope on the table and put her guitar bag and the larger of the shaman drums over her shoulder. Neville hurried to take Varlerta's battery powered amplifier and her backpack, for once without dropping or breaking anything. Ginny set the trap down on the floor, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she picked the rattrap back up again and followed Varlerta and Neville out to Drifter, who was already beeping its horn impatiently to tell them they were leaving late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time they arrived at the stone circle, the sun had set. The breast-high stones caught the last reddish gleam of light. Ginny looked around the deserted moor landscape while Varlerta was unloading Drifter's boot. While the teacher was setting up amplifier, guitar and drums, she was softly singing under her breath. As usual, Ginny had the impression that Varlerta was neither aware _that she was singing, nor _what_ she was singing. "His hair is as green as a fresh pickled toad, his eyes are as dark as a blackboard..." Ginny flinched. Now where in the world had the teacher picked up that song, she wondered. For probably the hundredth time, Ginny fervently wished she had never seen that dwarf. To divert herself she took the invisible rattrap from Drifter's front seat. At a questioning look from her, Varlerta gave her a curt nod of agreement. Ginny set the trap down into the wilting grass and tapped it with her wand. The trap dissolved into thin air. The rat fell about a hand's breadth to the floor; it looked at Ginny with utmost surprise and fear in its eyes. Then it turned abruptly, and, limping on its three healthy limbs, scuttled away to the circle and disappeared among the heather._

 "I think we will try to activate the stone circle in the simplest way we know," Varlerta told her apprentices. "You will play the recorder, Neville, because it's the instrument you are most familiar with. Remember the tunes we played yesterday? Now we will use them for some really exciting magic. Ginny, you and I will sing along and play the drum. All we will do for now is walk around within the circle and try to awaken it with our music. If all works well, the ground itself will give us strength. Later we might try to experiment with the guitar, the flute and the larger shaman drum."

Varlerta took the larger drum; Ginny reluctantly contented herself with the smaller one, while Neville followed, his recorder in his hand. Before Varlerta entered the stone circle, she uttered a few words in a language that Ginny did not understand and bowed to the stones. Ginny and Neville bowed as well, and then the three of them entered the circle. Varlerta started to follow the stony border on the inside, softly chanting a tune of syllables that did not make sense to Ginny. She played a gentle and simple accompaniment on her drum. Neville joined in with his recorder. Ginny, who was walking behind the two of them, felt that the tune touched something deep inside of her, or maybe even something underneath her. She softly struck her drum with the bone stick Varlerta had given her and tried to pick up what the teacher in front was singing by taking in the sound rather than the meaning of her syllables. After circling a few times within the stones, Ginny could sing along. It was as if she heard her own voice for the first time, a clear alto rising into the darkening sky, not squeaky at all. The strange syllables started coming over her lips as if she had sung them every day of her life to the rhythm of her drum. Ginny felt a warmth surround her. The stones, the sky and the ground beneath her feet, all seemed to respond to her music. Fatigue was out of the    question. She could have gone around and around in the circle for an hour, for days, for years, walking and singing without ever tiring. 

When Varlerta stopped singing, silence rose up around them like a mist. The teacher turned around, both hands raised. The full moon shone on her hair and on her skin. Ginny and Neville stopped where they were. Then Varlerta bent down and unzipped her boots. She stepped out of them and placed her bare feet onto the grass.

"The earth beneath us is warm and full of energy," she whispered. "Take your shoes of as well, you won't regret it."

Ginny and Neville placed their boots next to hers. Ginny noticed that while the stubbly grass outside the stone circle was frozen, the earth inside was warm like a clay oven. Her bare feet tingled pleasantly as they touched the ground.

Round and round in a circle, singing, chanting, the drum resonating in her hand. Ginny had lost track of time, but had become aware of her surroundings, of the stars gleaming in the clear night sky, of the smell of the grass, of the vibrating standing stones. At some point, she noticed with pleasure that Neville had replaced his recorder with the traverse flute. Pearly notes rose up to greet the full moon. It is indeed the stronger instrument, Ginny thought while placing her feet on the ground in time with the drum beat. The circle likes it, too. It absorbs every note and gives us a bit of tingly warmth in return. Round and round in a circle, her heart throbbing with elation. After a while Varlerta approached her, took her smaller drum and placed the large one in her hand with a flowing movement that allowed Ginny to play on without missing a single beat. Then the teacher wordlessly guided her to walk in front of Neville. Ginny was leading now, but it felt natural, as the larger shaman drum was one that led the way. When she struck it, the drum seemed to greet her. It made a difference to it whether Ginny or Varlerta was playing it. The drum liked her. Round and round in a circle, a slight breeze blowing the hair out of her face. 

When the first note of Varlerta's guitar pierced the sky, the ground shivered. The stones are not used to it, Ginny thought. For centuries, people have worshipped them with voice, drum and flute, then nobody came for a long time. The stones slept. And now we came and woke them up with such a demanding, almost desecrating sound. The druids or whoever came here last never would have dared it. For a moment she saw a vision of people dressed in furs, walking the circle, bone flutes and wooden drums in their hands. They were replaced by a procession of magicians in white, flowing robes, then by a small group of chanting witches in tattered, black dresses. The transparent, pearly white people looked like ghosts, but somehow Ginny was sure they were something the circle wanted to show her, a memory of the ground beneath her bare feet. When the figures faded, there was nothing to see in the darkness for a long time, just the faintly gleaming stones that showed her where to put her feet as she was leading the others along. Round and round in a circle, the eerie sounds of the guitar echoing on the stones. Suddenly, out of the ground a last pearly procession rose. Led by a pale, thinnish girl with a large drum, this group walked the circle like their predecessors. A boy played a long flute, a rapt expression on his face. The woman in the back had a small box strapped to her back and strung at her strange instrument with obvious pleasure. The circle has accepted us, Ginny thought with relief. We are part of its memory now. We may come back.

After a few more rounds, Varlerta stopped playing. Neville finished his tune, then there were no more pearly flute notes behind her. Ginny struck her drum very softly one last time. Then the three of them left the circle in silence. 

When she felt the icy grass of the world outside beneath her foot soles, Ginny inhaled very deeply. Varlerta took the drum from her and safely placed all instruments into Drifter's boot. Then she sat down on the ground and rubbed her hands and feet on the frozen grass. Ginny and Neville followed suit. Ginny's feet were warm and sported a few small blisters; her hands ached and her voice was hoarse from chanting. She saw Neville pick up a few frozen grass blades and press them to his slightly swollen lips. Varlerta laughed very softly.

"That's what half-trance does to you. You play and play, and you never notice you are overworking yourself. You don't feel the pain until it's over, and you completely lose track of time. Walking the circle is certainly not something I'd like to do every day. But smart as nature is, she gave the moon cycle a decent length so people can recover." She rubbed her face with her grass-cooled hand and left a smudge of dirt on her forehead. Then she glanced at her watch. "It's after three. I should bring you two home to your beds at last. All of us will be tired tomorrow, but I warn you: You may also find that your magic is stronger than it usually is." The teacher rose and brought Ginny and Neville their boots. When all three of them were shod again, they got onto Drifter's comfortable seats. 

For once, Varlerta did not put on a CD, for which Ginny was grateful. She liked the silence now. Looking in the rear-view mirror, she could see Neville stretch out on the backseat. Within a moment he was fast asleep. Ginny envied him. Her eyelids felt like lead. Yet she had questions for her teacher.

"How did you know which melodies to play? Would any melody have done, or were these special ones?"

Varlerta yawned broadly. "Special ones," she replied, obviously too tired to elaborate on anything. "Got them from an old manuscript of neumes. Worked fine, didn't they?"

"Neumes? What's that?"

"Medieval music notation. I'll show you some time. But not tonight." 

You bet, Ginny thought. The only thing you and me will look at when we get home is our pillows. I'm glad Drifter is Ensouled, because I'm not sure you'd be fit to steer a flying car right now.

"What about the guitar?" Ginny thought her own voice sounded heavy with fatigue, but she still wanted to know. "At first the ground seemed to be almost angry when you started playing. Then it accepted it. How did you know it would?"

"Been there before last month and tried it." Varlerta massaged her eyelids for a while, then consulted the compass and the sextant next to the steering wheel. She lightly tapped Drifter's steering wheel on the left to tell the car to turn a bit more to the west. "I wouldn't have tried it for the first time with you two around – far too risky. I'm not sure what the circle can do if it doesn't like you." Once more her face split into a yawn. "Never thought it would be _that late," she muttered._

Finally Drifter's wheels touched the frozen lawn of Hogwarts' grounds. They had landed right in front of the castle's large portal. Varlerta got out and gently shook Neville awake. The boy stirred very reluctantly, but after a while the teacher could persuade him to get out of the car. She handed her trainees their instruments, magically opened the door for them and wished them a good night. Ginny could see her limping back to Drifter before the door closed behind them.

Her own feet felt like fire by now. Somehow Neville and she made their way up to Gryffindor Tower. Waking up the Fat Lady was a difficult task, but finally she let them in, murmuring: "Hope these special excursions of you two won't become a habit."

In the common room, Neville stopped. "Goodnight then, Ginny," he said and blushed faintly. "You were really brilliant tonight." Then he turned abruptly and made his way to the boys' dormitory.

Brilliant? Why was I brilliant, Ginny wondered. But as she was too tired to think about it or even to undress any further than taking off her cloak and heavy boots, she just let herself fall onto her four-poster bed. She drew the curtains close with a weary hand and then drifted off into oblivion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ginny, what in the world are you doing?" Professor Flitwick's shrill voice pierced her ears. The Gryffindor fourth years were practicing Summoning Charms on a high pile of various books the Charms teacher had placed in the middle of the classroom. Ginny had noticed vaguely that her Summoning Charm was far better than last lesson's. The hardest thing was to keep her eyes open. She really would have preferred to sleep in instead of being the object of Flitwick's discontent. Leave me alone, I'm tired, Ginny thought, but of course she couldn't say so. Instead, she turned her heavy eyes on the tiny teacher.

"What am I doing, Professor Flitwick?" she asked. Suddenly she realised everyone in her class was staring at her. Slack-jawed, Colin Creevey murmured: "These books really seem to like you, Ginny." Ginny looked down and saw a circle of books, maybe half of the stack Flitwick had set up, float around her body like the ring of Saturn. The books were fluttering their pages, trying to get Ginny's attention and to get permission to land on the stack of about ten books Ginny was already holding in her left hand.

"I am impressed, Miss Weasley, but maybe you should leave some books for the other students to Summon," Professor Flitwick piped. Ginny felt the heat of shame rise into her face. "How did you do that, Ginny?" asked Candice Fudge, the pretty and pampered daughter of the Minister of Magic, her eyes widened in something like awe. Suddenly Ginny felt alienated from herself. It took quite a lot to get snobby Candy impressed; the popular Gryffindor girl did not talk to paupers like Ginny very often.

"Get lost," Ginny told the books and Banished them back onto the pile with an impatient movement of her wand. To her surprise, the books stacked themselves up very orderly on top of the dwindled pile in the middle of the classroom. Professor Flitwick enthusiastically clapped his little hands and bounced up and down a bit out of sheer happiness.

"Bravo, bravissimo, Miss Weasley, you are really brilliant today!" he almost sang. "Did you practice these charms with Miss Granger?" 

If everyone would just stop staring at me, Ginny thought. Her feet were killing her, and she wished she would dare to Summon herself a chair and sit down for a moment.

"It's this stone circle business that we did last night," Ginny explained, suppressing a yawn. "You know, research with Professor Varlerta. It's supposed to enhance inherent strength, and apparently it did. But don't get upset, she said it will wear off after a while. I'm only temporarily talented, so to say." 

"Well, I'm very impressed." Flitwick beamed at her, ignoring her hedging. "Can you Summon the whole pile again for your classmates to see?" Just what I need right now, Ginny thought, a task that makes me even more an object of everybody's gaping. Reluctantly she raised her wand. "_Accio_ books," she said unenthusiastically, and with a papery flutter, the books came and circled her like a ring again, just as she had envisioned it. Colin Creevey broke into loud clapping until he noticed that he was the only one. All the other students were scowling at Ginny, not at all happy that she had developed unexpected skills. To complete her demonstration, Ginny Banished the books back on the pile. "Can I sit down for a minute, Professor Flitwick?" Ginny asked. "We have been at the stone circle for the better part of the night, and I'm quite tired."

"Of course, have a bit of rest, don't overtax yourself," Flitwick piped quite seriously. After he had Summoned up a squashy armchair for her, he turned to the rest of the class. Gratefully, Ginny sunk into the chair and supported her feet on its matching footstool. Sleep, she thought and wiped her aching eyes. Meanwhile, Flitwick continued instructing her classmates.

"After this amazing performance of Virginia Weasley, I expect you are all very motivated to equal her achievement. Just keep on practicing, and monitor your wand movements closely. I hope you all saw Miss Weasley's perfect wrist flick."

Shut up, peabrain, Ginny wanted to say to the teacher, but of course she didn't. She hated it when people called her by her given name. Why couldn't her parents have settled on a less extravagant one? After using ordinary names like William, Charles, Percy, Fred, George and Ronald for all her sons, why did her mother have to come up with something as preposterous as Virginia for her much-longed-for daughter? And of course, Flitwick was really rubbing salt into the fact that she had done unexpectedly well today, Ginny thought wearily. They would probably make her pay in Gryffindor Tower later. Candy and her best friend Natasha Bagman did not like it if others got the better of her, and they had not had much to fear from Ginny in the past when it came to achievements or good marks. 

"Ginny, you must tell me about your research last night!" Professor Flitwick leant over  her, his eyes twinkling expectantly. Standing upright, he did not have to bend much to look Ginny in the eye when she was slumped into a squashy armchair. "I heard about Professor Varlerta's exciting research project, but I didn't expect it to yield such remarkable results. You just did some wonderful charms right now, don't you realise? You should be really happy to participate in such a project, happy and proud of yourself."

Ginny did not feel proud in the least way, as her increased strength seemed to be something that had come from outside of her rather than an achievement of her own. He's kind to me, so I should at least be polite, she reminded herself. Now that her sore feet were off the floor, she was already feeling much better. She managed a warm smile and said: "Thank you, Professor Flitwick."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The increase of magical strength started to wear off two days later, but Ginny and Neville were already hooked on it. Neville had been practically radiating with joy these days. "I did better than Hermione at Charms today," he told her, jubilant to a degree that Ginny found touching and unnerving at the same time. "And Professor McGonagall told me that after more than four years of teaching me, she thought I was finally getting the hang of Transfiguration. I'm a wizard, Ginny! For the first time in my life I really feel I deserve that name. When I'm grown I'm going to build myself a house in that stone circle, and I'll never leave it again."

"That would be quite a small house, wouldn't it?" Ginny replied, annoyed by Neville's contentment. Couldn't he see that the strength from the stone circle was nothing but borrowed power? Unlike her, he did not seem eager to tell people about the reason for his sudden progress in various fields of magic. And of course, his idea to live within the stone circle from now on just so that people would not be able to call him a squib anymore was nothing but preposterous.

"That's right, a small house," Neville conceded. "You think it would be too small – for two?"

In your dreams, Neville, Ginny thought. Don't look at me like this. You are a nice guy, I'd actually call you a friend, but I'm not going to become Mrs. Longbottom and live out in the moors with you, no way. She turned to watch Harry and Ron play one of their prescribed three rounds of chess with their strange, lifeless pawns, pretending she had not worked out Neville's implication.

In spite of certain reservations, Ginny was nevertheless deeply interested in continuing their research. Even though she had felt the permanent need to control or even conceal her increased powers as long as they lasted, she felt empty and weak after they had left her. She couldn't wait to spend another night in the stone circle. Unfortunately, the circle was attuned to the full moon, Varlerta explained to her. They would have to wait until the beginning of December for the next one. "And I believe it's better that way," she told them. "As fantastic as the stone circle effect is, we cannot afford to rely on it. All of us have to learn to function independently of it, to draw strength from our surroundings without its special magic." 

Varlerta kept on training Neville and Ginny in Strengthening, even though her exercises seemed a bit dull compared to the exciting event at the stone circle. Moreover, she taught Ginny and Neville to drive Drifter. 

"Our research is not without its dangers," she told them. "If something ever happens to me, I want you two to be able to go for help."

Ginny found flying Drifter through the air comparatively easy. Ensouled as the car was, all you had to do was to tell it where you wanted to go and to occasionally correct its course. For Neville, however, things did not turn out as easily. Somehow he could not make himself clear to Drifter, or maybe the car had just developed a grudge against him. After the fourth terrifying near-crash, even patient Professor Varlerta decided that maybe it was sufficient if one of her apprentices learnt to drive a car.


	12. Varlerta

12 – Varlerta 

I know I am breaking a stylistic rule by abandoning the third person perspective, but hey, that's what rules do to me. Some, I concede, are necessary. Many, I argue, are not. When confronted with one of the latter kind, I feel an itch in my fingers. A rule, I think. A pointless rule. Then I smack my lips. Breaking rules makes me feel in charge of my life, as opposed to feeling somebody else is controlling it. So here I am, turning first person narrator on you in the chapter assigned to me instead of hiding behind a semi-detached 'she'. At least I can warrant the truth of most things I will tell you. Satisfied? Then let's plunge into the narrative.

The night after I took the kids to the stone circle, I went to bed early because I needed to make up for the loss of sleep. Teaching is a physically demanding job, and if you don't believe that, try it yourself one day. Be that as it may, on Thursday afternoon a sense of duty, if not to say curiosity, caught up with me, so I went to see how the Spellsearchers were doing. As it turned out, they were not doing much. Lupin, I was told, was recovering in his bed from the stressful experience of being a wolf, while Black was playing chess with Our Supposed Hope for the Future, namely Harry Potter. (No sign of any pawn Ensouling yet, I'm afraid.) Godfather and godson sat on opposite sides of the desk, deeply immersed in their game. Disappointed by the utter lack of Atmoglisae Magicae in the Spellsearchers' lab, I made my excuses and left. 

On the way out of Hogwarts' gloomy west wing, I mused how I should spend the evening. The options included refining my preparations for next day's lessons (rather than spontaneously making something up), practicing my skills at the drum set (they really need it), using my temporarily enhanced magical powers for audio research, or writing letters to my band mates back in New York City. While I was still trying to make up my mind, I suddenly remembered something. An innocent white Muggle envelope, or rather the considerably less innocent powder inside of it, was still waiting to be given to someone. I went to get it and climbed down to the dreary dungeons Verus has made his lair. His lairs, I should say, because his sub-earthly kingdom comprises a high-security office, a classroom in which horrible things are rumoured to happen and a storage room for cauldrons, garrottes and the like. Moreover he has a cosy little rat hole of a personal potion brewing room, and, I suspect, a room in which he sleeps. If he ever sleeps.  

Knowing that after the Icy Fingers Event, a large number of the crucial potions are needed, I have concluded that his potion brewing hole would be my best bet. Like the Potions classroom, it has a side door that leads to the small, central room for storing equipment (though not, I dare say, his precious ingredients). However, in spite of this proximity I do not expect many students have ever been in there. The brewing room has a very private atmosphere, though I can't say why. It contains no personal belongings, no closets that might hold private notes, no naughty calendar with shapely nudes draped over shiny cauldrons. Perhaps it's something in the air, or maybe the thick dungeon walls themselves warn you that whenever you enter this room, you step into the core of the Potions Master's territory. That is where I am going, now that I have knocked on the door with the ancient and forbidding wooden carvings of reptiles and demons.

His face stony but his hair a neutral black, Verus opens. For a greeting, I get nothing more than a curt nod, but at least he lets me in without demanding a written petition from me. He is not likely to be satisfied with the information I am willing to provide, I realise. For reasons of my own, I am not eager to make his hair turn green again tonight, so I need a strategy.

"Verus, I've got something that you want," I tell him straight away. "I'll give it to you if you agree to ask no questions."

"What kind of nonsense is that? Do you expect me to buy a pig in a poke?" he spits at me, unexpectedly polite.

In the background, I can see two large cauldrons merrily boiling away. One of them is emitting a greenish-blue steam, and neither of them smells pleasant. On the worktable, piles of ingredients like dried foxglove leaves and pickled bat testicles are awaiting a Potions Master's hand. I put a hand in my robes' pocket and feel the papery envelope.

"Do you want it or not?" I ask. I know my behaviour classifies as really mean, because he will hardly be able to resist: He does not know what is being offered to him. The fine wrinkles on his forehead twitch, betraying an inner conflict. I bide my time, knowing this is not only about Potion Spoiler powder or about the promise I made to my frightened, red-haired apprentice. Most of all, this is about Verus and me; it is about mutual trust. 

He turns to his cauldrons, deftly stirs the left one and transfers some chopped ingredients into the right one. I remember that watching him work is a treat which even beats attending live gigs of many good rock bands, so I take his worn wooden stool and sit down in a gloomy corner.

"Alright, what have you got?" he asks after a few minutes while throttling the right cauldrons' fire, never looking up at me. 

"You mean you agree to my terms?" His hair is no more than slightly green yet. I lean back on the moist, uneven bricks of the dungeon wall and try to get comfortable on the only seat the potion brewing room holds. 

"I suppose a talent for blackmail is handed down in the blood," he replies with a sneer. It is not a kind thing to say. When people refer to my ancestors or the traits I may or may not have inherited from them, usually my carefully controlled choleric temper gets the better of me. Strange enough, when Verus says something of that kind, I do not mind it that much. Taking his reply as an agreement, I put the envelope on his worktable. 

"I was informed that the students refer to this substance as 'Potion Spoiler'," I tell him. He practically snatches the envelope from the work surface, quickly opens the flap and lets a tiny quantity of the powder fall onto his palm. The light in the dungeon is quite dim, so he takes a small magnifying glass out of his robes' pocket and moves up to one of the few torches to scrutinize the crystalline powder. Then he further examines it by smelling and even tasting it. Inwardly shuddering, I am reminded of one of the chief philosophical questions of poisoning, namely whether the frequent intake of small doses makes you immune to a poison, or whether it slowly kills you. About twenty-one years ago, Verus and I had one of our blazing fallouts about this question. His point of view was that even wondering about such trivial matters was unworthy of a Slytherin. 

"Chaos." His whisper, although barely audible, makes the dungeon walls shake ever so slightly. If such a thing were possible, I would say that he is a bit paler than usual. "Whatever fool brewed this powder, he used an ancient formula to put chaos into matter. It has not been attempted for a long time, and though this substance is surely the work of a genius, I wish that genius had never been born." 

Great. I might not be able to keep my promise to Ginny after all then.

"Does this classify as serious Dark Magic?" I ask anxiously. I know I should be better acquainted with current British regulations, but when it comes to potions, my knowledge is very limited, to say the least. Verus shakes his head. He pours the powder onto a battered marble plate without spilling a single crystal, turns to give his cauldrons a stir and cleans out a small mortar with a wave of his wand while answering me.

"The inherent problem of Chaos is its uncontrollability and unpredictability. Dark Magic is defined by its power to control people. The power of Chaos, may it prove to be destructive or creative, is nobody's servant, so it is termed dangerous but not Dark Magic."

He has got a point there, I decide while he is rummaging in his storage room for further equipment. When he re-enters the potion brewing room, he is carrying a stack of small retorts and tiny cauldrons. Obviously, he is going to analyse the Potion Spoiler straight away. I expected nothing less. He neatly arranges his equipment on the worktable, gives his cauldrons another good stir, then asks me if I would watch them for a moment while he is getting further ingredients from his office. 

"If they threaten to boil over, tune down the fire," he says. "Be careful; if you splash these potions onto your skin they may prove to be rather harmful."

I do not like to be alone with the cauldrons, which suddenly look like fuming monsters to me, but am loath to admit it. Wand raised in self-protection, I stand watch over them while he is away, praying to Fortuna that the cauldrons will be kind and peaceful. Brewing potions is not my cup of tea and never will be. With a slight feeling of disgust I turn my eyes away from a large jar of dried rat tails standing on the work surface; some hardened root of asphodel is lying on the surface, waiting to be sliced. I can't for the life of me remember what it is used for. Verus would really hate to hear that, as he spent so much time pounding information like this into my memory, I think. When I hear him at the door, I move to open it for him, but of course he doesn't need that: Used to entering the room carrying something in both of his hands, he has a spell word for it. He puts a wooden crate on the table and starts unpacking: Large vials, small vials, linen bags for dry ingredients, glass jars, all in all more than thirty items by a rough estimation. Awed as usual, I notice that he did not make any list of the things he needs. I would bet money that in spite of this he will not have to go back to his office, that he hasn't forgotten a single ingredient. Moved by a personal weakness, the need to communicate, I state the obvious:

"So you are going to analyse this stuff and then cook up a neutraliser?" 

Verus sifts grated bilberries into the right cauldron, then weighs up five tiny portions of the Potion Spoiler on a miniscule scale and fills them into various vessels. He takes his sweet time to answer.

"If you would only consent to tell me who the culprit was, we could do more than 'cook up a neutraliser,' as you so fittingly term it," he tells me, slicing the tough old asphodel root with magical precision. Every geek that ever felt the need to indicate quotation marks with his or her hands during conversation should take a page out of Verus' book some time. His use of voice inflection is very similar to his potion brewing – a tiny splash of this or that ingredient, and simple things like quotation marks are perfectly audible. I feel a stab of envy, because his skill of verbal exactness is such a perfect tool for a putdown, another art I have not mastered to my own satisfaction. Verus sneers on:

 "I suspect that you know not only who is responsible, but also whether this person merely owns, sells or even produces this 'Potion Spoiler.' If you did your duty of sharing your knowledge with the whole staff, we could completely eliminate the danger; we could remove this person from the premises and thus limit the devastating powers of this substance of chaos. I know your personal need to be loved by your students causes you to protect the culprit. But please take into consideration that you are not only obstructing the path of justice, but that you are also permanently endangering the entire potion production of this school." 

He pours griffin tears from a large, heavy bottle into a tiny, silver measuring cup. His hands, pale and thin, are nothing but bones covered with a zigzag of protruding veins; between thumb and index finger, the left one sports a large, greenish scar of a burn. When I was a teenager, I used to fantasize about Verus' hands on the strings of a double-bass because of his extraordinarily long fingers. But of course he would not hear of it, nor of any other kind of occupation he considered useless. Never, I am sure, have these hands held a spade or an axe, or any tool that is not of his trade; they have not been touched by the sun in decades. Yet, while pouring from the heavy bottle, his hands do not tremble in the least. I can't help but notice that he manages to fill the small cup exactly to the brim without even really looking at what he is doing. One more drop would have caused it to overflow. I hold my breath until he has set cup and bottle safely back on the table, then I say:

"Don't be ridiculous, Verus. Of course, we could expel a student or two, but if we want a school without Potion Spoiler, we would have to expel every single student of Hogwarts. Potion Spoiler is a commercially marketed joke product. My informant tells me that virtually every student in this school owns some. I'm afraid you will have to live with it from now on, because it is not unlikely that Zonko's will sell the stuff before the year is over." I watch him grate some decomposing bones in a discoloured stone mortar with one hand, check out the consistency of one of the remaining skulls with the fingernails of his other, while his third hand occasionally stirs the cauldrons. He is definitely brewing something up now.

"Your informant doesn't happen to be ... Ginny Weasley?" I see this look in his eyes again, a look I know so well. It is the look of greed, of someone craving knowledge. If it wasn't such a trivial expression, I'd call Verus the most curious person in the world. Except for me, perhaps. 

"My informant happens to be ... none of your business," I reply, hoping he will drop the subject for now, if only because he is so busy. The potions in the two large cauldrons still demand the occasional stirring and, I infer from the amount of ingredients lying on the table, are far from complete. At the same time, he is preparing the set-up for five different methods of analysing the Potion Spoiler. As I only supplied him with a small quantity, he is using some very small vials and palm-sized miniature cauldrons for this. In one of the dungeon's four grates, he sets up a neat metal rack no higher than a hand span. The tiny fires underneath are purely magical, as wood fires might get out of control too easily. In a matter of seconds, three of the small cauldrons are set up on the rack to heat, one containing water, two containing solutions he has brought from his office. Kneeling, Verus adjusts the small fires with a movement of his wand, then rips a hair from his head and puts it into one of the cauldrons very quickly, hoping that I didn't notice. 'Never underestimate a man's vanity,' is my motto. Of course, if Aisha could hear that, she'd reply: 'A bit rich, coming from you!' Meanwhile, Verus gets up to add seven drops of something to one of the larger cauldrons. 

I sit back on my uncomfortable stool, secretly enjoying myself. Watching him do a number of things at once is a pleasure, because he moves so quickly but never seems in a hurry. He reminds me of a dancer, sometimes even of a drummer, because his hands seem to work independently of each other, which may be the secret of his merciless effectiveness. His hair, I notice, has reassumed its normal pitch black, though at its ends and roots I can see a few red sparks now and then. In an odd way I feel proud, because I do not suppose many people have seen him like that. 

They say he is a lousy teacher. It does not surprise me. I try to imagine him teaching a pack of us ordinary mortals, who always forget what a bezoar is for, whose asphodel roots are never cut into exact pieces, and who do not spontaneously grow an extra arm just because a cauldron is threatening to boil over. I remember his frustrations at my inadequacy, back then when I was a thirteen-year-old wallflower with a terrible crush on him, when I would do everything for a morsel of thin-lipped praise from him. 'Not as bad as last time.' Manna from Heaven!  

To further distract Verus' attention from the thought of Ginny Weasley, and maybe also to get back at him for bringing my parentage up, I say: "So how's teaching Potions now with all your little favourite Slytherins gone?" 

Verus is giving a bottle of Armadillo bile a controlled shake. I'm rather fond of those cute little animals when they are alive, but I know he'd scorn me for being sentimental if I pointed that out. "Think what you like, but according to my own observation, a gift for the Art of Potion Making is not only a traditional Slytherin trait, but also one that seems to coincide with certain affiliations of the students' parents. It is a two-fold pity that the best were sent away to Durmstrang. Not only do I miss the talented students in my classes, but I also dread to think what will become of them. Even though there was never much hope for someone like Lucius Malfoy's son to turn from the path his father has chosen for him, the hope dwindles to nothing in that institution." He pours some Armadillo bile into a shallow china dish. Then he opens a jar of mummified pixies, which smell as dreadful as I remember them, takes one out and expertly crumbles it with his right hand (yuck!). After he has reduced the dainty dried limbs to powder, he suddenly looks up at me, his eyes narrowing. "You didn't like it there, did you?" he asks.

This is the understatement of the year. While I am still groping for words which might adequately express my feelings without sounding uncool, he posts a follow-up question:

"Or would you say it's what Death Eaters' kids deserve?"

I have to admit, he has brought the score up to two to one, in his favour. "My parents were no Death Eaters," I reply stupidly, which he answers with a short laugh, a rare occurrence as it is. I pretend not to notice. To overcome my tongue-tiedness, I answer his first question.

"I didn't benefit too much from the teaching at Durmstrang, maybe because I never even remotely mastered the language. They have harsh punishments there and encourage students to fight among themselves. Probably all I ever learnt there was to fight mean and to improve my skills at lying, cheating and forging – useful skills in themselves, but I suppose getting some OWLs or even NEWTs would have been helpful, too." I expect him to be shocked, because I don't think he knows I never acquired any formally accepted magical qualification, but maybe he didn't listen.

"You never sent a single owl," he says very softly, while his hands, still covered with pixie-crumbs, are hovering idly over the dish with the armadillo bile.

"They kept tabs on them. I wasn't allowed any contact with the outside world, neither with my mother nor with anyone from Hogwarts," I reply. He keeps his face blank, and I wonder whether he believes me. They had cursed traps keeping students out of the owlery, and man, those curses _hurt_, I want to tell him, but while I am still trying to decide which words to use, there is a knock on the door.

Before Verus can reach the door, it opens and closes again. Just like me, he must have realised who has just entered, maybe because they are the people most likely to run around invisibly in this castle. "Remus, Black, what can I do for you?" he says, his hatred as formal as a letter from the tax office.

Lupin appears, head and shoulders first; then with a swing of the cloak he reveals the rest of his body, the stack of old books he is carrying, and the large dog into which Black can transform. I can see the dog's hair stand on end. Then suddenly his snout shrinks, the hair recedes from his eyes, and the black fur turns into black robes. As soon as he is standing upright, he snarls:

"Snape, what the shnirk do you think you are doing?"

I see Verus and even Lupin flinch. I am not usually offended by bad language, and as a teacher I have to keep a constant watch on my own mouth so I don't swear in front of students. Shnirk, however, is another matter altogether. It's a wizard world swearword and means ... no, I'd rather not tell you, because it's really quite offensive. Verus certainly does not look like he appreciates being spoken to in such a manner. No more read sparks in his hair for tonight, I suppose. Eyes flashing, his arms crossed before his chest, he asks:

"Did I do something to offend you, Black?" 

Lupin puts a restraining hand on Black's arm, something I've seen him do quite a few times since they have arrived. With his bushy, dark eyebrows and firmly set mouth, Black looks rather impressive in his anger. Well, to be honest, he usually looks impressive. Yet, he is nothing you could put into a gilt frame and hang over your sofa, if you know what I mean. If he talks to me he is usually very polite, but I can't help thinking that his good manners are just another cage that keeps something locked up inside. 

"You are sabotaging our research, Snape," Black hisses, the artery on his neck throbbing with restraint. "You want us to fail, even if that means risking the lives of everybody in this castle. Nothing is as important to you as your pride and vanity, is there?"

Blue is for confusion, I think as I look at Verus' hair. His face a wooden mask, he asks venomously: "What am I supposed to have done, then?"

Lupin sets his stack of books on the table, accidentally crushing a few dried fireflies. "Stop jumping to conclusions, Sirius," he tells his friend quite firmly. Then he turns to Verus, his eyes narrow in his lined face. "Thanks for bringing us the library books we asked for, Severus. We really appreciate your help, but we have encountered a problem. Look at this."

He opens the book on top of the pile. By the ragged edges sticking out in the middle, I can tell that a large section of the pages have been cut out. "Curse attack and counterattack," Lupin comments and puts the tome aside into a pile of Deadly Nightshade leaves. Then he opens the next book which has been vandalised in the same manner. "Magic of cold and heat," he says. The missing section of the third book appears to have been called: "Modelling curses within the Atmoglisa Magica."

"Alright, I get the picture," Verus replies. "You are implying that I cut out the relevant passages of all those books before I gave them to you." Because his face is so immobile, I once more observe his hair colour. Still his confusion appears to be almost as large as his anger. I try to picture him vandalising ancient and valuable books, but can't. 

"I am not implying anything right now, Severus," Lupin answers, his eyes rather sad than angry.

"This is no time for politeness, Remus," Black thunders, somehow managing to look down on Verus, who is about two inches taller than him. "Sabotage and betrayal, isn't that what we can expect from him?" Oddly, he turns to me. "Professor Varlerta, just look at the evidence in front of your eyes. I gave him a list of books we need from the library, because neither Remus nor I must be seen there. The books he brought us all miss exactly the section or chapter we need most. Who else could have known that we are here, could have known what we are doing, and what books we asked for? And who else in this castle is desperate enough to want our research to fail?" 

"Don't ask me for my judgement before I know more about the matter," I reply while Verus is checking on his potions. I admit the evidence looks bad, and I would not go as far as putting sabotage beyond Verus. If you are his enemy once, you are his enemy forever, and I know he is not one to relish his enemies' successes. Angrily, Black throws the violated tomes onto the floor, while Verus is pretending none of us is in here at all.

 "Whoever did that knew what we are doing, and knows enough about the matter to sabotage us effectively, that much is certain," Lupin says calmly. Probably he is the only sane person in this dungeon right now, I think, because I know my own mind is reeling. After he has completed his cauldron round, Verus comes back to us.

"Accuse me of what you will, but I am truly offended you think me so stupid," he snarls. "Of course I am your most obvious suspect for this –" waving a hand at the books lying on the floor like a pile of trash – "but I assure you, had I meant to sabotage you, I would have thought of something less grossly obvious. I never even opened a single one of these books when I fetched them for you. For all I know they could have been damaged years ago. You could even have cut out what you needed back in 1980, or maybe your brilliant friends Lily and James did it."

Before Lupin or I can hinder him, Black slaps Verus in the face. "Never mention Lily and James in front of me, you traitor! Your Death Eater's mouth sullies their names," he screams.

Snape takes a step back, his wand in his right hand. "Don't push me over the edge, Black, I am warning you," he says in a dangerous whisper and wipes the trace of mild nosebleed across his face with the back of his left hand. Like in a kindergarten fight or a bad Western movie, I move to calm down Verus while Lupin is restraining Black. 

I have to admit I am getting rather angry with both opponents myself now. "This is not very helpful for either of us, so you'd better get yourself together," I tell him. "By the way, you should watch your potions." That does the job. In less than a second he is kneeling in front of his low mini cauldron rack, throttling the fires and stirring with some tiny spoons. Two of the small cauldrons he sets aside to cool; then he assures himself that the remaining fires are sufficiently low for a slow and harmless simmering of the potions. Meanwhile, Lupin is telling Black off in no uncertain terms. Apparently, my friendly and patient predecessor is not much less angry than I now.

"Let's sit down in my office and talk this over in a reasonable and civilised manner," Verus coldly suggests to Lupin, blatantly ignoring Black as well as me. I wonder whether I should leave the schoolboys to their brawling. Black's gaze rests on the floor; when he looks up and sees me watching him, he flinches. Only at the last moment can I stop myself from giving him a sympathetic smile. Keeping a neutral position in a fight can be a real pain, and besides, I can't claim that I have never reacted rashly or regretted some of my actions in my life. 

Verus holds open the door for all of us, an unmistakable way of telling us to get the shnirk out of his potion brewing sanctuary. While we walk along the underground passageway to his office, I can hear that old Clash song in my head: 'If I go there will be trouble, if I stay there will be double. So you gotta let me know ...' I try to fall back behind the group, to sneak back to my peaceful soundproof building, but right outside his office door, Verus turns to me.

"Valerie, it might be good if an impartial person was present at this interview."

Am I impartial? I look at the three wizards and see Lupin and Black nod their assent. In Verus' blood smeared face I cannot discern the faintest trace of appeal, but, well, supposing he has feelings like a normal person, he would want a friend with him now, wouldn't he? Shn ... er, shoot, what have I saddled myself with? 

Even for a potion ignoramus like me, Verus' office is a fascinating place. In the glass jars on the shelves there are some of the rarest and most revolting potion ingredients you can find in this world. Large cupboards look like they are hiding more than just ingredients, and the neat bookshelves hold a promise of secrets within secrets. In spite of Verus' obvious tendency to acquire objects that can only be described as bizarre, the office betrays an eye for beauty in the bizarreness.

We sit down in the chilly room, which at least holds enough chairs for all of us. Lupin lights a fire in the cold grate, and both he and Black push their chairs as closely to the source of warmth as possible. Verus has taken the high-backed, richly carved chair behind his desk, of course, a seat that offers little comfort but much authority to its occupant. Trying to sit by nobody's side, I place my chair in a corner, shivering in the icy underground air. He does this on purpose, of course.

All of us are silent. I wait for someone to say something, but then I realise their eyes rest on me. Am I supposed to lead this debate? I don't really want to, but after a while I lose my nerve, feeling out-silenced.

"I think we've got three problems here, not one. One is the practical problem at hand, the vandalised books. Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black need the pages that have been cut out, but we do not know whether they are destroyed or hidden somewhere." Black frowns at me, and I realise that he does not agree with me, that he believes one person in this room knows very well what happened to the missing pages. I don't want to get into that debate yet, so I continue.

"I do not know whether there is any chance to get these books from anywhere else, as most of them are old and rare. If I am not mistaken, the magic library of Hogwarts is the biggest in Britain, so the destruction of those books may prove to be an irreplaceable loss. However, as a teacher I could talk to Madam Pince and see if any of these books could be re-ordered." Lupin nods while Black scowls. As none of them move to interrupt me, I go on:

"Problem number two is that of the culprit. You believe Severus responsible for the pages' disappearance. He claims his innocence. As far as I can see, both points are difficult to prove. So where do we go from here?"

"There may be a way, if not to prove my innocence, then at least to put your 'evidence' into perspective," Verus says, looking stiff but calm on his high-backed chair, his face impassive as if the matter did not concern him personally in the least. "If you took the Invisibility Cloak and went into the library now, Remus, you could examine the books there at your ease. Then you could at least see whether this violation of library books is limited to the books I brought you, or whether many more books have been damaged." I look at my watch and nod; it is way past Madam Pince's bedtime. It would be safe for both Black and Lupin to have a look now.

"That wouldn't prove a thing, Snape," Black comments dryly, his gaze betraying not only scepticism but also revulsion with the addressee. "The only thing your suggestion proves is that you have run amok in the whole library and planted many more damaged books for us to find there." 

Involuntarily I sigh. All three wizards turn to me. Ignoring a surge of longing for the cosy peace of my building if not my bed, I tell them:

"I suppose all of this is immensely difficult to prove. Maybe you should go to Dumbledore and have your problems sorted out, if he is willing to spend time on this. But I think as long as you so deeply mistrust each other, you will neither accept any kind of evidence on good faith, nor will you be able to cooperate on the task at hand, the counter curse." 

Their silly enmity is problem number three, of course. For a moment, I am tempted to discuss it. I visualise myself as the bringer of peace, as the person who turns a schoolboys' grudge into a wonderful friendship. The look on their faces tells me I needn't bother, though. I'm no therapist or miracle worker; neither am I Albus or Minerva, who have the skill of ordering these three to keep a momentarily truce. 

"Of course you could also drink some Veritaserum in front of us to prove your innocence, Verus," I suggest offhandedly. Verus gives me a look that makes me flinch. Ok, ok, so it was a bad idea. Nobody would like to drink Veritaserum even in a situation like this. Imagine yourself turned inside out, the dirty laundry of your soul hung out to dry for everybody's entertainment. All of us know this; still, Verus' snarled refusal succeeds in making him look even more guilty than before. "My apologies – I know that's illegal," I weakly state. Wearily I rub my eyes, thinking that dealing with real children is so much easier than sorting out the childish hatred of these men in front of me. While Black and Verus stare at each other, Lupin gives me a look of sympathy.

 "I think we should still take a look at the library and assess the amount of the damage done," he says to Black. "We need to talk this over with Dumbledore anyway. The destruction of valuable Hogwarts library books is a matter that concerns him. And maybe," he gives Verus a meaningful look, "he will find a way to sort out the question of guilt or innocence as well."

Verus' reply is limited to his usual scowl-in-a-green-frame. I compliment Lupin on his insight, namely that the problem is presently unsolvable, because as much as I like Lupin and Black, right now I would be glad to be rid of them. I feel I have failed my part as mediator and fervently wish for a kind of Sherlock Holmes _ex machina _to suddenly enter the room and put some kind of unambiguous evidence on the table. May it prove this or that, may it even show that Verus is guilty – I think we could handle that, sort things out somehow. It's the distrust among our own side that is one of our worst enemies.

"We will find out the truth, Snape," Black snaps before he transforms into a dog. 

"As long as you also find time to search for the counter-curse," Verus replies softly. 

With one more growl, the black dog disappears under the Cloak Lupin is wearing. After nodding a goodbye to me, Lupin pulls the hood over his head and disappears completely. Then the door opens and closes again.

Verus stays on his chair, his head bowed ever so slightly, ignoring me. I suppose I should leave now, but somehow I can't. I have never hated anyone in the way that Black and Verus hate each other: As a schoolgirl I hated some schoolmates and teachers that tormented me, but the minute I escaped from them, I forgot them. They could only scratch my surface, maybe they hardened me, but were not worth my eternal hatred: I learned to reserve that for Voldemort. Hating Voldemort is an abstract thing to peruse at leisure, though – it's not like I have to face the Dark Lord over breakfast everyday, if you know what I mean. Likewise, I don't know what it's like to be hated in the way that Verus is hated, not only by Black but also by many of his students. It does not usually seem to bother him, but right now I think he looks quite miserable, even though I could not pin this impression on any one point of his facial expression or body language. 

Before I can check myself, I have walked over to him and have put a hand on his shoulder. Of course, he shakes it off. Veritaserum, his eyes say accusingly. I might as well get it done with. "Are you guilty?" I ask, though why he should tell me I do not know.

"Do you believe me to be?" he replies, his gaze as cold as stone.

"I can't see you butchering books. You'd hide them or something," I reply truthfully. He nods, but looks away. To allow his face a moment of privacy, I turn and sit down on his desk, which is kept so orderly that I can sit without disturbing anything. On the left of me, there is a completely neat stack of parchments, students' essays as far as I can see; on my right there is a small magical lamp and a few items I am tempted to call ornaments. Next to the delicate skull of an embryo unicorn stands the Jade Serpent of Slytherin, which I remember from Professor Malgam's desk, the head of Slytherin house in my schooldays. The palm-sized gilt cauldron is engraved with Verus' full name and the year he must have left school with top NEWTs; maybe it is a gift from his proud parents. A finger-sized crystal phial filled with a black liquid strikes my fancy; I take it in my hand to examine it. Suddenly I hear him get up; violently he pries the phial out of my fingers and pockets it.

"What do you think you are doing?" His wrath is tangible, but, oddly enough, he also looks scared. I get up from the desk and take a step back. My fingers hurt a bit, and I feel I am getting quite angry again. Before I can think of a fitting reply, he hisses at me:

"So you think me guilty, don't you? You think I am a traitor? Why don't you go to the library to help your friends with their search for evidence right now?" He points his bony finger at the door.

Hurt by the venom in his voice, I retort rather loudly: "I never called you a traitor. How am I supposed to know whether you are guilty or not? You wouldn't confide in me anyway. By the way, I'm sorry I tainted one of your precious possessions with my touch, it won't happen again. And I'm also sorry about bringing up the subject of Veritaserum. Ok, I made a mistake. Write it into the record you are probably keeping, the one where you note all the wrongs people do to you. Trust me, I won't ever try to invade your mind's privacy again!"

"Keep my private life out of this," he says in a dangerously soft voice, his right hand clawing his robes' pocket from the outside. Like a seething cauldron, his hair is emitting green fumes. 

"Your private life? I will if I ever come across it," I hiss back, walk out of his office and slam the richly carved door behind me. Even as I hear its bang, I realise that my temper has once more gotten the better of me, that I shouldn't have said that no matter how angry I was.


	13. Sirius

13 - Sirius  
  
  
  
The eyes of Hogwarts' wizened headmaster were grave, and Sirius realised Dumbledore had not only asked him to come into his round office to inquire about the Spellsearchers' progress. That was just as well: Remus Lupin and he had made no headway to speak of. Once upon a time James had scored a chance hit when working alone in the laboratory: Using the highly dangerous and complex method of curse self-infliction, albeit within the protective frame of the Atmoglisa, he had managed to completely Counter Icy Fingers one night. Sirius and James had felt elated; the following few days were spent with attempts to reproduce the effect. But before James and he had been able to find out what exactly had prompted James' success on that one attempt, word got to them that the Dark Lord was after the Potters. The rest was history.  
  
Sirius had always believed James and he had been close to finding the counter curse then, but now he was not so sure. Remus' and his work seemed to be going nowhere. Of course, now they knew virtually everything there was to know about Icy Fingers - for Non-Death Eaters, that is. Several of the vandalised books had been replaced with the help of Madam Pince. While others might be lost forever, at least they had Lily's old notes. The red- headed witch had kept a neat and thorough log of all her book research. Her references, implications and suggestions were complex, but once they had come to understand her train of thought, Lily's notes were a revelation. However, they only contained knowledge that was more than fourteen years old, knowledge that had not sufficed then and did not suffice now.  
  
Practical experiments had not yielded much more results, either. The Atmoglisa Magica, permitted witches and wizards to try spells and curses in a comparatively safe 'virtual environment' (a term Remus used). In it Remus and he could work Icy Fingers due to the old information the 'Git' had given to them; there they could practise countering on a general basis and try different ways of countering Icy Fingers. But so far, the creeping cold had always had the last word in their experiments. Sirius shivered when he thought of the laboratory. They could put log upon log on the fire - for safety reasons, house elves were not permitted there - but however much they heated the room, Ice Flowers still covered its windows at most times.  
  
"Sirius, I have called you here because I want to ask your opinion on a grave matter," Dumbledore said. Sirius nodded encouragingly, realising the very same moment he was only pretending to understand. He placed his hands palms down on Dumbledore's desk and waited for the grave matter, vaguely wandering if it had to do with the recent murder reported in that morning's Daily Prophet. But apparently it did not.  
  
"As you know, I have tried to win all those who are willing to fight Lord Voldemort for an order of cooperation. After our first meeting, you were spotted and photographed in front of Anne Figg's house. At that point, it seemed unlikely to all of us that a photographer of the Daily Prophet just happened to be in the right place at the right time - excuse me, in the wrong place at the wrong time. We all feared there was a leak in our order, that one of the witches or wizards I invited because I consider them trustworthy had betrayed us."  
  
The lines around Dumbledore's eyes creased with worry; Sirius could see his white eyebrows bristle up in accordance to the furrowed brow.  
  
"You mean you are not sure whether or not there is a leak in the order, whether or not any of us is a traitor," he replied after a few seconds of silence, urging Dumbledore to go on.  
  
"Indeed, we do not know exactly," the headmaster responded slowly. "I have checked on every one of my trusted and valued friends since the meeting, and I could find no indication that my trust in any of them was misplaced. And so far, nothing else has happened. If there is a traitor, I have found no evidence that he or she betrayed us a second time."  
  
"So are you saying it could have been just my tough luck after all?" Sirius asked. "Or are you implying I should take this personal?"  
  
Dumbledore sighed. "There is a third possibility. After I suspected treachery, I did not call for a second meeting of the order. Some groups that have agreed to cooperate on that first assembly have met on their own since then to limit the chances that their plans are overheard by a traitor. They have related their plans to me, but not to anyone else. But of course, if there is a leak in our order, that person might just be biding his time. If we call for another meeting with everyone, the traitor will learn more of our plans. Maybe he or she wants us to think that we are safe, wants us to think the photographer spotted you by chance."  
  
Dumbledore ran one bony forefinger over the other. His frustration of not knowing what to make of the situation was palpable. Sirius thought over the three possibilities, and found that one of them had to be true: Either the traitor was just waiting for the revelations of the next meeting so he could annihilate them more effectively; or there was no traitor, just a case of bad luck; or the traitor was a deadly enemy of Sirius Black, and Sirius Black alone. The vision of a face flashed up before his eyes - a hooked nose, a spiteful smile, a gaze full of envy. Experience told him he must not voice his suspicion; Dumbledore would become angry, or worse, he would simply sit there and look hurt. Sirius felt a great reverence for the wise headmaster of Hogwarts, so he kept quiet. Probably Dumbledore could appropriately estimate whether Snape was a traitor to him and to Hogwarts, but did that have to mean Snape betraying Sirius to the Daily Prophet was out of question?  
  
The headmaster gave Sirius a sharp look as if he could read his mind. Sirius was glad he had not actually mentioned Snape. "So you think it would be dangerous to call for another meeting of your order?" he asked.  
  
Dumbledore exhaled heavily. "It might be, and then again, it might not. I truly feel we all have to trust each other and we need each other's help. For this reason I wanted us to meet as an order of those who are willing to fight Lord Voldemort. I believe these meetings are necessary, but if there is a traitor among us, they may do more harm than good." He counted on his fingers: "Minerva is in favour of meeting again. Severus is against it. Chent Flitwick believes we should take the risk, and so do Astra Sinistra, Metheus Quibster and Varlerta. Moody took a fierce stand on never trusting anybody again when I asked his opinion, of course. Poppy, Heather Sprout, Cosinus Vector, Hagrid, Arthur Weasley and Gerold Hawks are undecided - and so am I, to tell you the truth."  
  
"I don't know what to think of this business, so I guess you can count me among the undecided," Sirius replied.  
  
"Your opinion is of special importance to me," Dumbledore told him. "The life threatened by the last leak, if there was a leak, was yours. As long as you are at Hogwarts, you are safe, even if your whereabouts should become known. I would hate to defend this school against wizards from the Ministry as they should fight on our side, not against us. Yet I assure you that no one will penetrate the walls of this castle as long as Minerva and I are here to protect it. But still - while a spy of Lord Voldemort could do us all immense harm, a spy of the Ministry might be a special danger to you. If you ask me to, I will postpone the next meeting of the order until we have found the culprit."  
  
Sirius nodded and bit his lower lip to keep from speaking up. He could not ban Snape's face from his mind even though he gave it a fair try. Snape quietly sending an owl to the Daily Prophet. Snape sneaking into the library with a scissor in his hand. Snape staring at Varlerta whenever she wasn't watching. What did it matter if there was another meeting of Dumbledore's order? The traitor slept four storeys beneath him every night.  
  
"If the Ministry knows I am here, I may become a liability," he answered slowly. "I do not doubt that you would know how to protect me, but I wonder what will become of the school if Fudge knows you are harbouring a fugitive mass murderer."  
  
A scowl dabbed at Dumbledore's brow. Sirius knew the headmaster did not like it when Sirius embraced the idea of himself as a murderer. To console him, he came up with a practical compromise.  
  
"Of course I can't help you with your worry about a potential spy of Voldemort, but if it's me you are worried about... Why don't you call for a general order meeting which Remus and I won't attend? Just instruct everyone from Hogwarts not to mention us or our Spellsearching activities in the meeting. If there is a spy of Voldemort in the order, it might be a good idea to keep the latter secret anyway." Of course, if Snape was the one who tipped of the Daily Prophet, this would not help, but Sirius reckoned that Snape would not act against the interest of Dumbledore if he could not blame it on some anonymous, hypothetical spy.  
  
"I've thought of this possibility, and it might be the best way to solve this problem," Dumbledore agreed. "Will you agree to be left out?"  
  
"Of course," Sirius answered. "Remus won't mind it either, I think. He is not overly fond of large assemblies of witches and wizards who are likely to treat him with distrust." Neither am I, he added in his thoughts. He had not forgotten how people had looked at him when the order had last met.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When Sirius returned to the Spellsearchers' laboratory, he found it dark and dreary. Remus had gone to relieve Mundungus and the others on their secret guard on Azkaban for a week. He was due to return the next day, hopefully with a usable transcription of an extremely rare magical document; yet maybe, if not probably, he would return empty-handed. Mundungus was working on the transcription and translation of a very obscure text about magical energy absorption for them. Written partially in old Arabic and partially Latin, but using European Medieval magical runes (at least this was what Sirius had understood), the text in was an intriguing find. Bill Weasley had sent it to Hogwarts after discovering it in an Egyptian antique-junk store, but had told them he could not warrant for its authenticity.  
  
Sirius stared out of the window into the clear and dark night. From far away he could hear the noise of the Quidditch pitch. Having nothing to do, he could of course do some more work, get a head start on tomorrow's agenda. He could. But - frustration soaked through him like liquid and weighed him down - he would not. What was the point of his work, anyway?  
  
Covering himself once more with the invisibility cloak, he sneaked outside to see Hagrid and Buckbeak. The large Hippogriff was tethered behind the pumpkin patch, because Hagrid did not have the heart to keep him inside his hut all the time as Dumbledore had instructed him. Oblivious to the icy wind, Buckbeak was toying with his dinner, a bucket of fluffy baby rabbits. When he smelled Sirius, the large winged creature called out - a strange noise somewhere between the neighing of a horse and the crowing of a rooster. Buckbeak did not fail to greet Sirius even if the wizard was invisible; the creature was well used to that by now. Sirius patted his beak and stroked his wiry feathers; he scratched the thick downs underneath Buckbeak's wings, something he knew the Hippogriff loved. After a thorough caressing of the ferocious creature, Sirius turned to Hagrid's hut. Through the window he could see a light; Hogwarts' gamekeeper must be home. But when he approached the window, he saw that Hagrid was not alone; what's more, he looked as busy as anybody could look. Sirius had never met Olympe Maxime, half-giantess, headmistress of Beauxbatons and Hagrid's fiancée, but neither Hagrid's behaviour, nor the size of the female he was holding in his arms, left Sirius with any doubt that this must be the woman Harry had told him about.  
  
Sirius pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around him and started to walk back to the castle. He felt cold, lonely and forsaken. Madame Maxime was no woman to be fancied by someone of his humble human size; yet there was no doubt about it: He would not have minded female company himself. For not the first time that night, his thoughts strayed to Professor Varlerta. He had visited her in her building a few times, and she had not seemed displeased by that. Once he had carelessly run into her apprentices, Ginny and Neville. It had startled all three of them considerably at first, but maybe it had been for the best. After Varlerta had forced the two students to swear a solemn oath that they would keep silent about it, she had introduced him. Sirius had to admit he had enjoyed the moment: Both Ginny and Neville had simply gawked at him in awe and admiration. When he happened to call on Varlerta during their lessons with her now, the two of them treated him kindly, but with respect. Just like Varlerta, they called him Mr. Black and bustled around to clear him a seat and get him a cup of tea. Perhaps they enjoyed playing hosts in the strange and usually slightly chaotic building of Professor Varlerta.  
  
Even though he could not remember taking the turn, he suddenly found himself on the path towards the building, wondering whether she would be busy tonight. He had to admit he was interested in her as a woman. Even though she was not as beautiful as Lily had been, or come to think of it, neither quite as kind as Lily - his heart still skipped a beat when he remembered the red-haired witch's angelic loveliness, her pure, gentle goodness - even though Varlerta was really quite unlike Lily, she was still interesting. She had seen something of the world and had things to talk about; she had a biting sense of humour that was not unlike his; and even though she was not as gorgeous as Lily had been, there was no denying that ... He found himself knocking on the door of Varlerta's building.  
  
When Varlerta opened, her face looked incomprehensive for the fraction of a second; then it broke into a smile. "Oh, it's you, Sirius? Well, come in, and if you don't mind, take that thing off."  
  
Sirius spread the moist Invisibility Cloak over the back of a chair. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.  
  
"Oh, not at all," she replied, polite as often, though by no means as always. "I was just re-reading the paper. I suppose you've read it too."  
  
Today's Daily Prophet was spread over one of the sofas, the front page with its picture of a smoking ruin of a house and the covered bodies in front of it visible from where he stood. "It's terrible. Unbelievable. Just like in the old days, but the Minister of Magic just closes his eyes to it."  
  
She nodded. "Another two wizards dead, and still they cover up the real reason. Metheus told me that they were both League men, just like the Kinneys and the Figgs. He believes that all members of the League may be killed any day now."  
  
"I once overheard a conversation between him and Dumbledore. If I got it right, Quibster wanted Dumbledore to protect League members here at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore said no, because they are such a violent group."  
  
Varlerta shrugged. "I suppose they are, even though I do see their point. But of course you can never protect all of them here. As far as I know, there are at least a hundred League members here in Britain and many more all over the world. If they were all to stay here until Voldemort is defeated, we would have to build a new castle, or rather half a dozen more castles here on the grounds."  
  
"If we ever manage to defeat Voldemort," he replied, amazed by her optimism.  
  
"Yeah, that's right. If." She made a gesture as if to brush away Voldemort, the threatened League members and the Daily Prophet. "Is it cold outside, by the way? I'd fancy a walk around the lake, if you'd like to come."  
  
It was indeed cold and windy outside, but neither of them seemed to feel this was an obstacle to taking a walk. Having spent most of the day indoors, Sirius was glad to breathe the clean winter air. He even dared to keep his invisibility cloak open in front; the grounds were dark and deserted, and it was not likely that he would be spotted.  
  
The path towards the lake was covered with crispy frozen leaves. Sirius could see his own breath as a thick cloud of steam. In the soot black sky, a million stars twinkled faintly.  
  
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Black, please remind me to give you Linquist's 'The Jigsaw Fit - Curse and countercurse' when we return. The book just arrived as a reprint from Australia and is presently lying on my desk, waiting for you," Varlerta suddenly said.  
  
"'The Jigsaw Fit' - that's great news. I did not even know there was a reprint edition," Sirius replied. Lily's references to that old standard book were numerous, but sometimes cryptic. Not for the first time, Sirius wished he could just ask the red-haired witch who had done so much book research for them. Instead, he had to reconstruct her knowledge bit by bit. The destruction of the Hogwarts library books did not help, of course.  
  
"I really appreciate that you do so much book-hunting for us, Professor Varlerta," he told her. "It is a great help after what has happened."  
  
After a few seconds of silence, Varlerta replied: "I know we are at cross- purposes here, Mr. Black, but I really do not believe Severus Snape to be responsible for that act of sabotage. You will have your own good reasons for mistrusting him, of course. But I keep thinking, if Verus was not responsible, somebody else must be. I wonder who that is, and what we can do to stop him or her."  
  
"I am equally sure that Snape did it," Sirius said, trying to keep the harsh tone out of his voice. "He's got it in for me; he always did." He would have said much more but checked himself when he realised Professor Varlerta was laughing.  
  
"Verus says the same about you, you know. You two must have truly vile personalities if I am to believe both of you. I am infinetely glad that this is none of my business. - By the way, how familiar are you with Linquist's theories of verbal supplements? I admit I did not read the whole book yet, but I skipped through it a bit last night, and I actually believe the supplement theory is nothing short of bullshit."  
  
Supplement, supplement ... Come on, he said to himself. A proper Spellsearcher should certainly be able to take her up on that challenge. Linquist's theories of verbal supplements, now he had it.  
  
"You mean the idea that there is a word for every word-induced curse, that curse and counter-curse are supplementing parts on a metaphysical, meta- language language?" The long-buried knowledge of his Speallsearcher Training Finals came back to him; he suddenly felt a whiff of a memory, of the top Hogwarts graduate he had once been. For a moment he thought of Lily, walking between James and him along the impressive hallways of their training college, railing at canons and harrowing them with hypothetical questions. What if Linquist, what if Flamel, what if old Merlin himself had been wrong? "So why do you think the theory is bullshit?" he asked reluctantly, acutely aware that he wasn't really in the mood to talk business. Professor Varlerta seemed to have caught on.  
  
"Ok, I'll keep it short. What I thought bullshitty was Linquist's idea that the search for a counter curse has anything to do with finding a word to match 'Glaciera.' Rather we should look for a magical process that reverses whatever is the inherent magical structure of Icy Fingers." The look on his face must have betrayed his feelings, because she continued rather hastily: "Ok, ok, I'll change the subject now. Well ..." she considered for a while, "you know what Astra told me?"  
  
Astra? Ah, she meant Professor Sinistra. Of course he could not know what she had told Varlerta as he wasn't a bloody clairvoyant, but he nodded encouragingly just the same.  
  
"She said there's going to be a lunar eclipse early next April. A total lunar eclipse, and it will be visible in Britain, too. Can you imagine? As far as I read, stone circles run wild during that kind of thing. I'm really excited, and so are Ginny and Neville."  
  
"You mean you will take them there during the eclipse to enhance your strength?"  
  
"I certainly will. Of course, we will have to take a few precautions, because I literally mean the stone circles run wild during lunar eclipses. There's no telling what will happen. But of course we can protect ourselves from any uncontrollable surges of magical energy. I already borrowed a few books on eclipse power from Astra so I don't lead my assistants into danger."  
  
He smiled when he thought of Ginny and Neville's devotion to their eccentric teacher. "That's good, because they would follow you blindly into peril, if their adoration for you is anything to go by."  
  
"Thanks again for the complement. But you know, I'm not the only one they adore. I think," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Ginny's got a teenage crush on you. Isn't that cute?"  
  
Professor Varlerta was by far not as kind and tactful as Lily, who would never have said such a thing, Sirius thought. Now how in the world was he expected to react to this?  
  
"How ... I mean, why do you think so? She's quite young, isn't she?" he replied unhappily.  
  
Varlerta seemed to find it funny. "How I know? A severe case of insufferable mentionitis, that's how I know. It's 'Mr. Black this'and 'Mr.. Black that,' and 'how is his work coming along?' and 'did he come to see you last night?' and 'don't you think he's lonely up there in the west wing?' - Don't look at me as if I had just suggested you were a paedophile. Of course she's quite young. She's fourteen. Most fourteen-year- old girls have these kind of crushes. It's perfectly harmless and will pass. I just thought it was cute." She grinned, but then her look softened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Black. I did not mean to worry you and admit it does you much credit that you look so miserable now. I'm positive she'll be alright. Matters would be much worse if you were a famous drummer or something."  
  
Mr. Black this and Mr. Black that, and all this in spite of the fact that he wasn't a famous drummer - there he was, assessing his market value as a male again. He wondered if he should ask Professor Varlerta to call him Sirius at last, but felt embarrassed by the idea. Or maybe the thought of her calling his arch enemy by such a cute nickname as - he swallowed - Verus was repulsive enough to put him off the idea. He did not reply to her apology, but walked next to her in silence.  
  
Professor Varlerta, however, had a slight disposition to chat, so the silence did not last very long. As always, she had a few stories to tell. Swallowing any displeasing thoughts, he once more enjoyed listening to her tell about the world outside Hogwarts: about the sky-scraper-sliced sky of Manhattan where collisions of invisible flying vehicles were not infrequent, about the dingy little subterranean clubs where she often played with her rock band, about her musician friends she missed so much. She could tell him of Muggle college classes she had attended and sometimes flunked, of her travels, of the eerie pre-dawn light on the icy taiga, of strange shamanic rituals she had observed in many places of the world. When Varlerta had finished her anecdote and was silent for a few minutes, darker thoughts flooded Sirius' mind. The witch strolling by his side had something that awoke a deep yearning in him, something he wanted for himself: A fulfilled life outside this castle, a life that would welcome her back whenever she decided to leave.  
  
Hogwarts made him feel he had come back in a regressive circle to be a school inmate, a Spellsearcher or a prisoner once more, however you wanted to see it. Unlike her, he had virtually nothing outside it. Again and again he harrowed himself about why he had not tried to run for it after Peter Pettigrew had blasted away a Muggle street to frame Sirius for the Potters' murder. Now all he had to show for most of his adult life were twelve years of pointless martyrdom - nothing that would look good on a CV at any rate. In contrast, the circle that had brought Varlerta back to Hogwarts as a teacher must have been a spiral. When she closed her eyes, he was certain, she saw not the merciless, ceaselessly glaring lights of an Azkaban prison cell, but a world that was obviously her oyster. Yes, he mused as he walked by her side, following the path that rounded the lake; she was free to live her life as she chose, and she had everything. Well, nearly everything. If he had been free to live his life as he should have lived it, there was one thing he certainly would not have missed.  
  
Sirius contemplated the nearly dark grounds around him. The forbidden forest loomed like a dark, hungry beast in the background. The crescent moon, no more than a slim slice of light in the sky yet, was mirrored on the still waters of the lake. On the shore, a few ducks slept, huddled together in the frozen grass. Suddenly the surface of the lake rippled furiously; a giant tentacle appeared, grabbed one of the ducks at random and pulled the squalling bird down into the depth of the water. The rest of the flock dispersed with dismayed squawks. Sirius could not quite decide whether he found the scene he had just witnessed funny or frightening. Next to him, Varlerta inhaled audibly. He turned to her and saw a shady outline of her face, a faint spot of light on her hair. Before he could stop himself, he said to her what was on his mind:  
  
"I still find it hard to believe that you are not married, that you have no family waiting for you in the States. I've always wanted one, you know - I was always sure I would have children one day." Varlerta did not respond, so he continued: "Don't you want a family? I mean, the way Harry sees it, you are good with children. And if you wait too long - I mean, one day you will be too old for it, won't you?"  
  
He could have kicked himself. Even though he wasn't exactly an expert in the dating game, he could imagine there were a few basic rules. One of them had to be: 'Never tell a woman she will be too old to have babies soon!' Varlerta did not seem offended, though; she laughed.  
  
"Teaching teenagers or even eleven year old kids is not exactly the same thing as changing nappies, is it? I just don't think I'm the type." They walked a few more steps on the icy gravel before she continued, her voice quiet and far more sober:  
  
"I don't want to give you any crap about biological determinism, but the grim truth is that I never wanted to take the risk. Even if I don't believe in these things, the thought still scares me, you know." She turned her face away to look at the ink black waters that were once again smooth like a sheet of ice. Somewhere on the bottom of the lake, the giant squid must be snacking on the duck now.  
  
Her words had confused him. Biological determinism? What did that have to do with anything? "I don't think I understand what you just said," he replied.  
  
She exhaled a thick cloud of steam into the icy air. "See, I don't think it's in me, but even if I'm alright - it could be skipping a generation to appear in any baby I might ever have. However absurd it may sound, but it's not a risk I would want to take at any rate, even if it means I'll never get the chance to run around with a pram. If you consider the worst-case scenario I have in mind, you will certainly agree with me."  
  
"I don't know what you are talking about," he said, feeling a vague dread arise in him.  
  
She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to him. "Don't tell me you don't know. They must have told you. Somebody did, didn't they?"  
  
He took a step back to face her. She was all defiance now, her chin raised up as if in defence, her body tense, her mouth set. Whatever they had not told him, it wasn't something pleasant, that much was sure. "You tell me, then," he retorted.  
  
Valerta's laugh sounded bitter. "I can't believe they have been so irresponsibly negligent. Here you are, taking a near-romantic midnight stroll around the lake with me, and you don't even know that you are consorting with a monster!"  
  
"Are you a vampire or a werewolf then?" he asked, forgetting for a second that neither species multiplied by procreation, that if she was a vampire or a werewolf, the question of maternity would not even have arisen for Professor Varlerta. The witch in front of him replied with another humourless laugh.  
  
"Nothing so simple," she snorted, then extended her hand to him in a gesture of mock introduction. Her voice was pure acid.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Black. My name is Valerie Riddle." 


	14. Hermione

14 - Hermione  
"They've got another one of these meetings tonight."  
  
Harry's shadow fell on the chessboard. Startled, Hermione looked up from her game; so did Ron. Since the terrible events that had occurred at the end of the last school year, she found Harry strangely changed. At first she had not put much heed to it, because the change was a subtle one: More often than before, she found herself spending her time with Ron rather than with the two of them, while Harry was goodness-knows-where; and when he returned to them, he often seemed to Apparate out of nowhere as if they weren't inside Hogwarts castle. Their friend seemed preoccupied; most of the time he looked like he was enjoying himself as of old, but Hermione suspected his mind might be on other things. Ron had told her that Harry talked in his sleep at times now. Just last night, he had confided in her, Harry had repeatedly mumbled something about his parents, about Cedric Diggory, but most of all about 'You-Know-Who,' as Ron still preferred to say.  
  
Hermione started wondering if it was not time to take some action. It was obvious that Harry was not worrying about his OWLs as he should, but about something completely different. She had told Ron he should take Harry aside and give him a chance to talk about the things that burdened him even in his sleep, but as far as she knew, Ron had not worked up the courage yet. Men, the incomprehensible species, she thought. She had considered taking Harry aside herself, and yet ...  
  
"You mean that order thing?" Ron replied quietly, for once sensible enough to keep his voice down instead of announcing it all over the Gryffindor Common Room. Without answering, Harry pulled up a squashy armchair to watch their game. Hermione had her slightly phlegmatic king trade places with the more belligerent of the castles. She'd built up to that rochade for many turns now; Ron's wild chessmen kept hers in the defensive most of the time rather than allowing her to follow a strategy of her own. Her move completed, she looked back at Harry who seemed to stare at the board without seeing it. He is definitely not alright, she decided. While she was still trying to think of a remark that sounded sympathetic but not pathetic, Harry asked:  
  
"You're not playing with your pawn, Ron, are you?" He took the little wooden figure in his hand and waved it at Ron, while Ron's eight flint pawns on the board turned their battered heads away from it in distaste.  
  
"No, not you as well! Hermione's been bugging me about it since we started that game," Ron snapped at him. Of course, that was not quite correct; Hermione was positively sure she had let matters drop after no more than three attempts to inform Ron of his duty. However, looking at Harry's pale face, she decided not to argue. Without another word, Harry exchanged the wooden pawn for one of the club-holding little warriors on the board, ignoring the replaced figure's shrieks of abuse and its malicious club attack on the base of Harry's thumb.  
  
"Useless piece of firewood," Ron complained, but did not take the practice pawn from the board again. Ron's original chessmen chattered among themselves in an unpleasant tone, probably planning another mobbing campaign against the immobile wooden pawn.  
  
"Did you say there is another meeting of Dumbledore's secret order? There hasn't been one for ages," Hermione asked him in a low voice. She had been wondering about it, wondering whether Dumbledore was having second thoughts about inviting them.  
  
Harry nodded and absently rubbed a finger across his forehead. "Professor McGonagall just told me. It's on in an hour. Quidditch practice is cancelled, too, Ron. Seems she had a word with Angelina, though what she told her I don't know."  
  
Hermione commanded her queen to move diagonally across the board, keeping Ron's knight in check. "Just as well -I can hear the howl of the storm even in here, and I bet we are having snow again soon. You shouldn't be out in this weather, Harry, because you look ill, if you ask me."  
  
"He didn't," Ron mumbled. With a frown, he took the wooden pawn and manually moved it to a spot where it covered the threatened knight. Harry gave the two of them a short nod, then got up from his armchair and left in the direction of the boys' dormitory.  
  
"You shouldn't really rub his nose in it, Hermione," Ron said quietly. "Not everyone of us appreciates being told that he looks like shit."  
  
"Ha - so you are worrying about it, too!" For once, Hermione ignored Ron's newly acquired habit of saying words Mrs. Weasley would not have approved of. "Do you think it has to do with You-Know-Who?" she whispered. "Or with - Cho Chang?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "I don't think anything at all, Hermione, except that we'd better leave him alone."  
  
"Well, that's not what I call friendship," Hermione retorted. "If Harry is sick, or worried, or having bad dreams, we've got to do something."  
  
Ron shrugged while nudging his knight to take one of Hermione's pawns. "What do you want to do about it, then?"  
  
"Maybe we should talk to Dumbledore about it - or at least to Madam Pomfrey. I think he's ill - at least at times he seems to be, and today he definitely is."  
  
Ron shook his head; he looked up from the chess board and into her face. "Waste of time," he quietly dismissed the idea. "Don't you think they are keeping an eye on him after what happened last summer?"  
  
Hermione did not like to be outsmarted by Ron, least of all when she was once more losing to him at chess. "If they are, it's not good enough. Come on, you have to see that we've got to help him. Can't you just for once take things around you seriously?" She commanded a bishop to take the knight even though she was sure it was one of these chess traps Ron liked to set up for her; she just couldn't see it yet.  
  
"There are some problems that can't be solved just by notifying the proper authorities, Hermione," Ron sighed . "Why do you always have to complicate matters by being such a know-it-all?"  
  
He should think of a new insult for me one of these days, Hermione thought wryly as she watched her beaten bishop leave the board, holding his stone rear end with both stone hands.  
  
"And why do you always have to be so careless and immature, Ron?" she countered. "You-Know-Who is on the rise, Harry is ill, and all you seem to think about is how to keep the Quaffle out of the goals and what silly misfortunes you'll make up for your next, worthless Divination class. Don't you see it's high time to grow up? I can't believe they chose you to sit in the order with Harry. If you had at least come up with some original ideas, or had a special skill, such as Ensouling, or if you had ..."  
  
But before she could finish her sentence, Ron's small wooden pawn sprang into motion and, blatantly ignoring the rules of chess, stepped forwards three steps and rudely punched Hermione's queen into the face.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Hermione, Ron and Harry were still discussing the miraculous vitalisation of Ron's practice pawn when they made their way up to Dumbledore's office. Ron had at once fetched Harry from the dormitory where Harry had probably been leafing through his parents' old research log again. One look at the angry little wooden figure had brought Harry's laugh back on: The pawn was standing in the middle of the chess board with raised wooden fists, while all other chess figures had respectfully moved to the side. Hermione felt a part of her worries lift from her heart.  
  
"He's mental," Ron had told Harry happily. "Ensouled, but completely mental. I'll never make a chess figure out of him."  
  
Hermione still could not believe what she had seen. In a strange way, she felt proud, even though she kept telling herself that the only one who should be proud of himself was Ron. "I can't believe you did it, Ron," she said with a smile.  
  
"Me neither - and don't ask me how I did it, because I have no idea whatsoever." Ron gave her the grin of a rascal.  
  
All arguments were forgotten. He is an Ensouler, she thought without the slightest trace of envy as they were walking up a spiral staircase. For once Ron stood out before Harry, and all three of them seemed to like that. Harry gave Ron another clap on the shoulder and said something about Ensouling Quidditch balls. They are just silly boys, Hermione thought, but this did not deflate her good mood in the least.  
  
When they entered Dumbledore's circular office, Hermione felt her happiness evaporate, though she did not know why. All she could say was that the air seemed to weigh down on her. This time, they were far from the first to arrive. Many order members sat behind the tables provided for them, talking among themselves. For a second, Hermione had the impression that a dark cloud of smoke hung beneath the ceiling, but when she looked up, all she saw was magical lamps lit because of the early December darkness.  
  
As they took their seats behind a small table crammed between larger groups of witches and wizards, Hermione looked around. Compared to the last meeting, less 'order members' were present; yet there were a few faces she had not seen the last time. The most surprising of them were those of Ginny and Neville who were sitting on the opposite side of the circle of table. They had to be here as Varlerta's apprentices, as they sat next to her and listened with rapt faces to an animated conversation between Varlerta and Professor Sinistra. Sirius and Remus, Harry had quietly told them, would not come this time because their whereabouts were better kept a secret.  
  
As could have been expected, many of the teachers were present again. Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, Flitwick and Snape were sitting on their right, forming a circle around Dumbledore's desk. On the other side of Harry, Hermione and Ron sat Alastor Moody and a few Aurors; the best- looking of them was called Hawks, if she was not mistaken. Professor Vector sat between Rosmerta and Arthur Weasley; Professor Quibster stood on the side of Mundungus Fletcher, whispering something in his ear.  
  
After Dumbledore had formally opened the meeting, Hermione realised to her dismay that keeping her attention on the ongoing discussion was an effort. There seemed to be world-wide preparation for a fight, if not a full- fletched war between Voldemort and his opponents. Whether in London or in Hogsmeade, witches and wizards were doing what they could to enhance the strength of those that were willing to fight the Dark Lord. Yet the Ministry of Magic seemed to be split in two halves, those who feared Voldemort was on the rise again, and those who loved their routine too much to believe in anything else. Witches and wizards from abroad were offering their support, acknowledging that a Dark Lord back in power would be a problem that ignored national boundaries. Hagrid told them that Madame Maxime was raising funds and magic-power in France. Varlerta read a letter from an American friend to them which declared the support of a small group of witches and wizards should Voldemort strike again. Penthesilea Finnegan, Seamus' youngish aunt and, as Hermione had heard from Ron, Percy's new boss at the ministry, discussed her contacts to Greece.  
  
Professor Quibster asked the order for their support for the pro-Muggle activist group called League. Hermione had read about them, but had not known they were still active. As Quibster put it, all the witches and wizards recently murdered by Voldemort were League supporters. He asked the order for their assistance in finding a safe place where the more than one hundred British League members could hide from the Death Eaters. Hermione saw the present witches and wizards nod politely; several said they would think about it, while Dumbledore kept silent. Somehow this was odd, Hermione thought; if these people were in such immediate danger, why wasn't anything done to get them out of harm's way? Yet after a few order members had assured Quibster of their goodwill, other speakers continued.  
  
Arnold Peasegood, the Obliviator had finished his contribution to the meeting before Hermione had recovered from the fatigue caused by his drowning voice, so she sat up in her chair and tried hard at least to listen to the next speaker. Professor Varlerta introduced Ginny and Neville as her apprentices and gave a brief report of her full moon experiments. Agatha Longbottom put her knitting aside for a while and beamed at her grandson, while Neville did his best to look dignified (which wasn't saying much). He does not offer her something to be proud of every day, Hermione thought. She had heard in meticulous details about the stone circle research from Ginny and now found it hard to pay close attention.  
  
As far as she understood the report of Ron's father, Charlie Weasley and his dragon-taming friends were trying to train dragons for combat in a camp hidden out in the sticks of Romania. Bill however had not made much headway in three months of negotiations with the representatives of the Goblin Financial Empire.  
  
All this should have been exciting to hear, but Hermione came to realise she just did not like meetings like this one. Report followed report, and discussions seemed to run on and on. Her mouth was dry, and she was developing a slight headache due to a slight lack of water and oxygen.  
  
Next to tell the meeting of their activities were Mundungus Fletcher, Penthesilea Finnegan and the wizard sitting between them, introduced to the order as Steven Ricket. He was in his early forties; his neatly cut hair and his immaculate robes set off with a subtly striped tie - an odd accessory for a wizard, Hermione thought, but oddly befitting Ricket's spotless appearance - looked out of place between Mundungus and Penthesilea, whose robes were slightly stained and torn. Yet when Ricket reported of their secret guard on Azkaban, he spoke with authority.  
  
"As there is a certain probability that You-Know-Who's supporters will try to free their prisoners from Azkaban, we are keeping a watch on the place, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Dementors guarding the prison are no help; rather they are a threat, because You-Know-Who might bribe them to change sides. Unfortunately, there is only eight of us, working in teams of two. Among other things, I am here to ask your assistance. What we need is some funds because some of us may have to drop our day jobs; but I truly hope we will also find a few witches and wizard willing to participate in ..."  
  
"I don't really care to know about your sissy guard on Azkaban, because it is little more than a decoration," Mad-Eye Moody interrupted him rather rudely. "If the Death Eaters decide they want to run down the Dementors or maybe to team up with them, none of you will even live to warn us. Not even eighty wizards would be up to this job, let alone you eight." Moody looked coldly from Ricket to Mundungus, his voice derisive.  
  
"Of course, it's a nice, heroical gesture, but as such of little significance in the bigger picture and of little interest to all of us. What I really want to know is how is our progress on one of our real problems." Now Moody rose from his seat and looked down at Snape who was sitting next to him. He nearly poked the Potions Master into his chest with his gnarled finger. "What I really want to know," he growled, "is how you are proceeding with breaking the memory charm of Azkaban's most dangerous prisoner, Dolores Lestrange."  
  
Mundungus' had paled in anger; Hermione could see that Penthesilea Finnegan's face was tense, while Steven Ricket's brows contracted slightly. Yet none of them looked as upset as Snape. On his sallow cheeks burned two red spots, and something seemed to be amiss with his breathing. But before he could even reply, from the other side of the room Varlerta said, or rather shouted: "Dolores Lestrange is alive?"  
  
All heads turned to her, even those of the belittled Mundungus, Steven and Penthesilea, who had exchanged a few whispered words. Varlerta blushed, but looked directly at Snape. "Verus, did I just get that right? Dolores Lestrange is alive?"  
  
Hermione tried to remember whether she had heard that name before or read it in a book, but had to accept that it meant nothing to her. She saw Snape swallow and then say with pretended nonchalance: "Oh yes, she's alive and kicking, if you do not count the fact that she is presently serving a life sentence in Azkaban and has suffered a considerable loss of mental faculties."  
  
"I did not know that," Varlerta replied, nervously fiddling with a piece of her left sleeve. "She's alive but insane then?"  
  
His voice matter-of-fact but audibly shaky, Snape answered: "A large part of her memory is inaccessible even to her, probably due to a rather destructive, self-inflicted memory charm. And of course she is in Azkaban, so insanity is what we have to expect." Then he looked at her with eyes that had narrowed to slits. "By the way, what is Dolores Lestrange to you?" he almost whispered.  
  
"Well, she was my aunt, my mother's sister. Is my aunt, should I say."  
  
Now it was Snape's time to get up from his seat so rapidly that chair toppled over backwards and hit the floor with a thump. "Bloody hell, woman," he hissed at her, the profanity sounding especially monstrous as it came out of his mouth, "is there no evil witch or wizard in this country that is not a close blood relative of you?"  
  
Varlerta leant back in her chair in a gesture of defiant relaxation. "There's loads, actually," she replied to his question. "Only think of the inbreeding we'd have to deal with if they were all related."  
  
Dumbledore's mouth twitched into the shadow of a grin which faded before it could properly resemble an expression of amusement. Moody however looked like he was close to a fit or seizure. He darkly stared at Varlerta with his normal eye, while the magical one was frantically rolling in his head. Then he slammed his fist on the table.  
  
"Dolores Lestrange, Dolores Rosier before she married Lestrange, was your aunt, then? Well, now I recognize you, Ellis Cawldon, or Varlerta, or whatever alias you are presently using. You deceived and eluded me twice now, but you won't get a third chance." He pointed a gnarled finger at her; his voice rose to a scream. "Seize her, seize her, people. Right here in front of you sits our traitor, the daughter of Lord Voldemort!"  
  
Varlerta put her booted feet up on the table in front of her and folded her arms on her chest. "That's not even proven, Moody," she replied icily. "My mother could have cheated on her husband. For all I know I might be a bastard."  
  
An avalanche of murmuring rose in the circular room. Witches and wizards talked with their neighbours; some of them stared incredulously at Varlerta. Moody's surged forward in direction of Varlerta's seat. When he passed Dumbledore, the headmaster grabbed his sleeve. "Leave it, Alastor," he said quietly but with authority. "She is no traitor; I can vouch for that."  
  
Hermione could not believe her ears. Lord Voldemort, a daughter; and that daughter a teacher at Hogwarts? It was unheard of. Dumbledore's order was in uproar. Almost frothing and visibly baying for blood, Mad-Eye Moody tried to break from Dumbledore's grip. People's whispered conversations had turned into shouting matches. Gesturing wildly, Steven Ricket and Penthesilea Finnegan were discussing the merits of their guard on Azkaban, but everybody else seemed to be discussing Moody's unexpected revelation. Varlerta slowly got up from her seat and walked across the room towards Moody with an air of a witch who has nothing to fear, gazing straight ahead. People hurried to give way for her as if they were afraid of her. Dumbledore's shouts for order for once availed to nothing.  
  
"Recognised me, Sir, didn't you?" Varlerta spat at Moody. "Well, I haven't forgotten you either, to tell you the truth. Your eagerness to send me to Azkaban, your complete indifference towards my obvious innocence are still vivid in my memory. Captain of the Aurors, my ass. Captain of the bloodhounds would be more like it. I can't remember much about you that sets you off from being a primitive-minded imbecile once you are on somebody's scent!"  
  
Both opponents had their wands out by now. Gerold Hawks stepped behind Moody and put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to go easy on his blood pressure. Snape's black-robed figure suddenly appeared in the middle of what threatened to become a battlefield.  
  
"Leave it, Moody. Professor Varlerta has been cleared from all reproaches, if any ever were made. It will harm our cause if we accuse each other without reason instead of uniting for the challenge ahead."  
  
"Severus is right, Alastor," Dumbledore said quietly, and once more had the whole room's attention without raising his voice. Yet if Hermione was not mistaken, he shot Snape a slightly ironic gaze which made the Potions Master turn his eyes downwards to his dragon-hide protective shoes. Moody, however, was not convinced. He stood up straight, displaying an unexpected height which was normally obscured by his skewed peg-leg walk, and shouted over their heads like a professional public orator.  
  
"You know the witches of that clan, Albus, and should know better than to trust them. Secretive, sly, power-hungry and seductive, that's what all the Rosier women are and ever were. That Slytherin serpent -" he pointed at Varlerta, "has bewitched Severus, and I'm afraid she has hexed your body and mind as well. Look how gullible Severus was as a young man, entangled in the nets of that deadly spider Dolores, serving her and killing for her. Even now he defends Dolores against our attempts to crack open that mind of hers, probably because when he goes to see her in Azkaban, she manages to seduce him still."  
  
Looking at Snape, Hermione almost felt sorry for him. While Moody seemed to have grown in stature, Snape seemed to have shrunk; his hands shook visibly. She also noticed that Varlerta, none too ruffled by Moody's accusations directed at her, seemed to take a new measurement of the Potions Master with her gaze, looking up and down his slightly hunched figure. Somewhere in the background, Mundungus Fletcher's low and slightly ironic voice spoke.  
  
"If you think any man physically able to have sex at Azkaban, you've never been there, Moody."  
  
At this, Dumbledore, Gerold Hawks, Varlerta and even Arthur Weasley snorted out loud, while many witches and wizards present at least hid a black- humoured grin. Hermione flinched inwardly when she saw Professor McGonagall and Agatha Longbottom exchange dark looks.  
  
"You are wrong to accuse Severus of being under undue influence, just as you are wrong to accuse Varlerta of being a follower of Lord Voldemort, Moody," Dumbledore said gravely. "None of us can change our parentage, or our past, for that matter. I agree with you that we need to have the information Dolores Lestrange withheld from us by hexing her own mind fourteen years ago. However, I also agree with Severus that breaking her memory charm will most likely kill her. Even if you think that an acceptable loss, you must see that she cannot help us anymore once she is dead."  
  
"Neither will she be of any use when she is permitted to keep her secret stashed away in her obscured memory," Moody growled. "I am warning you, Dumbledore: That witch is a risk as long as she lives - a risk to You-Know- Who and a risk to us. She alone is reason enough for the Dark Lord to overrun Azkaban any day now." With these words, Moody sat down again, disagreement on his scarred face but obviously unwilling to stir up any more arguments. Now and then he shot Varlerta an acidic glance, but the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher just turned her chair away from him until she faced the other way.  
  
Dumbledore looked into the circle of order members, a great weariness in his face. "We will have to pull ourselves together, my dear friends," he told them. "If we go on like this and let our unity be broken by distrust and hatred, we will be an easy prey for Lord Voldemort."  
  
The meeting dissolved shortly after. Hermione could not help feeling a little depressed, because she knew Dumbledore was right. If the opponents of Lord Voldemort could not cooperate properly, they did not have much chance. Most witches and wizards in the room seemed to feel this, too, leaving it with downcast eyes and very little small talk. Hermione could only hope they would learn their lesson.  
  
Be that as it may, Harry and Ron seemed to be less affected than most by this hopeless mood. They raced each other up the staircase of Gryffindor tower, eager to see what mischief the Ensouled pawn had achieved in their absence. In spite of herself, Hermione had to grin when she saw them waiting for her in front of the Fat Lady and heard Ron's shouts urging her to catch up. After all, she thought, whatever miracles they will expect of us in future, we are only teenagers. She could only hope that the adults remembered that and found ways to sort out their personal differences themselves, and in time, even if they appeared to be so childish now and then. 


	15. Lupin

15 - Lupin  
  
  
  
At least the moon wasn't full this Christmas. He felt he should be grateful for small blessings. Tonight, only the thinnest sickle of the crescent moon was in the sky and his next nights of transformation, of pain and of loneliness, were almost another two weeks away. Lupin rubbed at the ice- flower covered window pane of the Spellie's Lab, as people had started to call their work space in the west wing. Beyond the half-transparent, glistening crystals, there was more white still: Outside, it was snowing furiously. The Hogwarts ground was enveloped in white plush. Lupin blew at his fingers; his breath immediately turned into a cloud of steam and formed a few tiny crystals on the part of the pane he had just freed of ice. The Lab had been a cold place even in autumn, but now it was becoming unbearably icy. Shivering slightly, he found he could not draw his gaze from the snowy grounds. Sirius had taken yesterday's copy of the Daily Prophet to the loo with him; he would not be back for a while. He should be cleaning up the Lab before retiring; tonight they would not work. Really, he should get going instead of idly gazing out the window, he told himself, instead of reminiscing about youthful snowball fights, about four boys, about four animals romping in the freshly fallen snow. Yet he stayed where he was.  
  
Suddenly out of the haze of whirling snowflakes, something garishly pink appeared. Something pink and large, he realised; to be precise, an enormous pink flying Cadillac appeared out of the snow storm. It landed neatly in front of Hogwarts' imposing portal; the headlights, weak as they were in this weather, were switched off. Lupin retained his place at the window, wondering who on earth could be arriving at Hogwarts' in a pink flying Cadillac, and what's more, arriving at Christmas Eve.  
  
For a minute or so the Cadillac just sat there, as if its occupant was dreading to come out into the snowstorm. Just as its door finally opened, Lupin could discern a figure running down the steps from the portal, sliding on the snow, catching herself just before she fell down the steps and then making her way to the Cadillac. From the flying black hair and the ludicrous purple cloak he could tell it was Varlerta. The man emerging from the car could hardly properly erect himself before she had reached him; then she threw her arms around him and, if Lupin saw correctly, kissed him on both cheeks.  
  
Lupin did not like what he saw. He suspected that Sirius had an interest in the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and, let's face it, he thought, if anyone in this castle deserved a change for the better in his love life, it was Sirius. Two weeks ago his friend had hinted that something was 'not right' with Varlerta, but by now such disturbing thoughts seemed to be forgotten. Lupin watched the stranger hug Varlerta back, unload the boot of the Cadillac, then saw the two of them carry a trunk and a wooden crate towards the castle. Curiosity overcame him. He knew it would be kind to stay with Sirius now, especially if the new arrival was some sort of resurrected boyfriend of Varlerta. But, he thought, if I can't get a look at him, I can't find out, can I? 'Down at the Hall,' he wrote on a piece of parchment, then took off to make his message come true.  
  
His instinct had been right: The Great Hall was where the action was right now, and where else could Varlerta be heading with her visitor? A seductive smell of cinnamon pervaded the air; mistletoes were magically suspended from the gently snowing ceiling. While Hagrid, Flitwick and Minerva busied themselves with the twelve Christmas trees, a few more teachers sat around there, chatting. The staff room was cosy enough for official staff meetings, Lupin knew from his own experience. Having a cup of tea with the other teachers while watching Flitwick outdo himself with glittering decorations was better, though, especially as the usual holiday quietness gave the teachers a bit more privacy.  
  
Varlerta and her visitor both set down their burdens, shed their cloaks and shook some snowflakes from their hair. A closer look at the stranger sent a wave of pity through Lupin: He was by far the most remarkably handsome man he had ever seen. Combining the built of an athlete with the subtle grace of a dancer off duty, his tall figure clad in a plain blue robe seemed to radiate in the twilit Hall. The stranger's face, tanned just to the extent of not looking out of place on a winter's day, framed by fashionably dishevelled, shoulder-long golden hair, looked like something you see on a magazine cover rather than in real life. Casting a quick glance around him, Lupin saw all heads in the hall turn to the stranger. Heather Sprout was gawking at him, her teacup, suspended in mid-air, all but forgotten. Varlerta was beaming at her guest in obvious admiration. Poor Sirius, Lupin thought again.  
  
While Varlerta introduced the stranger to everyone in the hall, Lupin strategically chose a seat: He sat down between Snape at the far end of the teacher group, and the disorderly heap of luggage and cloaks Varlerta and the stranger had left on a some chairs along the empty table. Then he helped himself to some hot chocolate and put a few marshmallows into his cup.  
  
"You are not supposed to be seen in here," Snape told him without conviction.  
  
"Dumbledore decided it would be safe for me to officially visit Hogwarts around Christmas, especially as it does not fall into the dangerous time of the month," Lupin replied. Snape was fiddling with his teaspoon, looking away as Varlerta and the stranger approached them.  
  
"Hi Lupin." Varlerta, glowing with good mood, gave him a broad smile. "This is my friend and band mate Roary Lyons from New York. Roary, this is Remus Lupin, one of my many predecessors and presently a Spellsearcher."  
  
"Nice to meet you!" Roary had a melodious voice, a winning smile and eyes so blue Lupin tried to discern whether he was wearing dyed contacts. Roary's handshake was firm and dry. All hostess, Varlerta pulled a chair back for him, sat down beside him and, with a tap of her wand at an empty china coffeepot, ordered coffee from the house elves.  
  
"Severus Snape, wasn't it?" Roary turned to Lupin's neighbour. Snape nodded curtly.  
  
"The Potions genius with the mood hair problem. Var wrote a lot about you." Unruffled by Snape's continued scowl and flashing green hair, Roary turned back to Lupin. "About you, too. In a way I feel I know everybody here already, but it's quite exciting to be here in person now. I hope you'll give me a tour later."  
  
Still grinning, Varlerta said: "I can't believe you're here. You did an immensely good job with your surprise. But tell me, what brings you to Britain, especially on Christmas?" A wisp of worry ran over her face. "Are Pat and Aisha ok?" She poured coffee from the magically refilled pot for Roary and herself.  
  
Roary laughed in a deep, mellow tone. "Don't worry, everything's fine. Or rather, mostly fine. Pat and I decided to have a peaceful Christmas for once, so I sent him to his mom's on his own this year. I was going to see my sister in Florida, but her kids have all got the measles and she asked me to stay away. So I decided the best I could do on Christmas is to pay you a little surprise visit. As for Aisha - well, I hate to tell you, but I' afraid she's back together with what's-his-name."  
  
"Oh no! That jerk. Poor Aisha. Since when, for goodness' sake?" Varlerta frowned, but her eyes were alight with gossip.  
  
"Oh, just a bit more than a week. They've gone to Hawaii for the holiday." Roary started to pull something outside the breast pocket of his robe, but after a quick look around thought better of it. "Hope he's paying her way this time, and not the other way around, as I fear."  
  
Varlerta nodded sympathetically, encouraging Roary to talk on. Listening to stories about people you do not even know is infinitely boring, Lupin thought, so he asked:  
  
"You play in Varlerta's band in New York City then?"  
  
Roary nodded. "I'm the singer." Varlerta sighed almost inaudibly; Roary patted her hand.  
  
"Yes, we are your band and always will be, girl, and the minute you finish that Voldy-business and get your bum back to town, we will kick the other guitarist out again. There's no two ways about it. Not only are you our friend, but the guy is a catastrophe."  
  
"I thought he could play really well," Varlerta said, her face in conflict between a happy and a sad expression.  
  
"And I said, or rather wrote you," Roary replied amiably, "that it doesn't matter if the guy is Eddie Van Halen or Steve Vai or God. I can't stand him, neither can Pat and Aisha, and the minute we'll see the last of him will be one to celebrate. He can't play a single song without using his big, fat digital effect board, and imagine, he likes Manowar."  
  
"Manowar," Varlerta repeated in dismay. "You're kidding, aren't you?" Lupin noticed that her American accent was thickening again as she conversed with Roary. She did not seem unhappy that her successor failed to please her band.  
  
Trailing a cloud of glittering sparks behind him, Flitwick came over to their table. "Varlerta, are you going to finish decorating your trees, or do you want me to do it?"  
  
"Of course, those trees!" Varlerta thought for a moment, and with a glance at Roary decided; "Oh yes, we will decorate them!" Enthusiasm made her look at least twenty years younger. "Want to help me, Roary? It's fun." The two of them got up and walked over to three trees on the right which still were mostly unadorned. When Lupin followed them with his eyes, he saw a large, black dog sitting near the door.  
  
He beckoned; Sirius came over and jumped onto a chair so he could still oversee the room. Snape raised an eyebrow, but did not seem in the mood to argue. They watched Roary and Varlerta hurl flashy miniature comets at the trees. The multicoloured objects hovered between the branches or zoomed around the stems, at times forming random zodiac signs, at times racing each other around the tree tops. While conjuring up the little stars, Roary sang Christmas carols such as 'God bless you, merry gentlemen' and 'Deck the halls with bows of holly' in his deep, voluminous voice. After a verse or two, Varlerta joined in with an improvised alto counterpoint, while high above them, Flitwick's clear soprano soared up to the snowy ceiling. Lupin would have liked to tell Sirius that he had reasons not to believe Varlerta and Roary were lovers, but found no unobtrusive way to do so. It wasn't just that Snape sat next to them or that it might have looked abnormal to non-order teachers like Professor Trelawney if he discussed people's love life with a dog. Rather, he knew that Sirius was not the man to blab about his inner yearnings. You had to know him as well as Lupin did to infer that the question of Roary and Varlerta might be of interest to him.  
  
Once their trees were bristling with colourful sparks, looking, as Lupin thought, very American in deed, the two resumed their seats and helped themselves to more coffee. Roary obviously had an easy-going personality; in less than a minute he had managed to draw Snape into a conversation about the dangers of hair potions. Lupin was amazed. He had never heard Snape discuss potions with anybody on an equal level; if he spoke about his domain, he usually lectured. Roary, however, seemed to know more than a little about the subject, explaining that he had once attended potions classes at Northern Magic University in Boston, Massachusetts.  
  
"I used to be quite into that stuff ten years ago, and I still take an interest. Though it may sound silly, I even take an interest in hair." He cast Varlerta a mischievous glance which made her tug self-consciously at a strand of her remarkably long, black hair.  
  
"I'd love to see you work on a cure for mood hair," Roary went on. "Maybe I can even help you. Friends of mine have been trying to find one for a year or so. They have cooked up a solution of ginko tree ash, kneazel urine and parsley root extract which succeeded in dulling the effect. The potion looked promising, but they haven't found a way to properly enhance it. Maybe we can combine our expertise."  
  
Snape looked thoughtful; for the first time in weeks Lupin saw his normal hair colour. "Parsley root extract? I had not thought of anything so simple, but it sounds like the formula is worth a try. Enhance it ...," his brow furrowed, "maybe with crocodile eyeballs? Perhaps even crocodile tears might do the job. Or maybe stingray gills? Sepia brain? Something watery is missing, at any rate."  
  
"When I told my friends about you, they agreed to give you their formula if you promise to split the profits both ways. I've got it with me. You see, Varlerta wrote me about your problem. She believes you'll be the one to figure it out," Roary said. Snape shrugged, but shook Roary's hand as a binding wizard contract.  
  
"I'll be here for a few days," Roary said. "Right now I'm looking forward to a tour of the most internationally famous school of witchcraft and wizardry, of course. Tomorrow is Christmas day, so I don't suppose you'll be doing any work."  
  
"Tomorrow or some other time would be fine," Snape replied. Lupin assumed the Potions Master wasn't one to pay much attention to such trivial matters as holidays. Moreover, he was probably desperate to free himself of a condition that gave others such a direct indication of how he was feeling.  
  
"I'll see if I can find some time tomorrow, then," Roary decided. "I suppose you have a laboratory somewhere in this castle? - I'll come 'round, and we can see what we can do to get rid of your mood hair."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
In the evening, Lupin went to his room to prepare his Christmas presents. Silently he grinned to himself when he unwrapped three Wheeze Hand-Eating Stockings. He had purchased them via a straw man, namely Ron, and was planning to give a few people a bit of a laugh at Christmas morning. Sirius' stocking was the easiest. Having missed more than a decade of music, CDs were always an option for him. Choosing which ones to buy for him was a difficult task though, not because he already had everything, like other friends of Lupin, but because he virtually had nothing. Lupin had finally decided on Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes and Nirvana's Nevermind - avoiding clichés was not the crucial point here. Also, he had gotten some invisible Velcro tape and thread from Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions per owl-order: Sirius kept complaining about the Invisibility Cloak, which frequently threatened to open up at critical moments. Velcro tape should do the job, Lupin thought, and it could be removed later without harming the cloak if Harry did not like it. He would offer to sew it in for Sirius, too.  
  
For Dumbledore he had bought some socks. He did not know why, but somehow he had the impression that the old headmaster occasionally suffered from cold feet. What's more, a Hogwarts house elf had sold him two pairs of the most ludicrous and odd hand-knitted socks anyone could imagine - just the right thing for Dumbledore's sense of humour. Of course, it was no great gift for somebody as well-off as Dumbledore, but he decided it was the gesture that counted as he slipped the socks into the softly growling Hand- Eating Stocking.  
  
Harry, Hermione and Ron did not need any joke stockings, as they were more than likely to already be acquainted with them. Unsure whether or not to give them presents, he had opted for the most unassuming way out, namely a large bag of Honeyduke's sweets for each of them. Hagrid would get a slug- eating gnome Lupin had recently caught in the vicinity of the Quidditch field. Of course, putting the gnome into a stocking would not do, so who would get the third Stocking?  
  
Should he give a present to Professor Varlerta? He had not been sure and had finally decided against it, though he had a nice book about Grindylows in store for her just in case she should have a present for him. Severus, of course, was much more difficult. Lupin would have liked to give a Christmas present to the repudiating Potions Master, if only out of mischief; Snape would hate it to get something nice and thus be indebted to someone. He had considered giving Severus a cute and fluffy little puppy or kitten just to see what would happen, but had decided it would be unfair on the animal. Minerva McGonagall was too grand to receive a present from him; Lupin still felt like a student towards her and thought she would not appreciate any fraternizing. Heather and Metheus had made unequivocally clear that they did not hold with such nonsense as Christmas presents, and with the other teachers he was not really on present-giving terms. Lupin twisted the last remaining Hand-Eating Stocking in his hand. It would remain unused tonight.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
On Christmas morning, Lupin was awakened by a loud squall of swearing. He could not help grinning. Slipping his robes over his pyjama pants, he went to Sirius' room and knocked.  
  
"Moony? - Get off there, you stupid thing - hey - I said - no, you don't - get off, I said!"  
  
"Merry Christmas, Sirius." Lupin opened the door to see Sirius struggle with his Hand-Eating Stocking. The red device had already swallowed Sirius' right arm up to the elbow; Sirius was tugging at its heel with his left hand, trying to get it off. The stocking made sucking noises; it sounded content. "Need help?" Lupin asked, leaning casually against the door.  
  
"What in Merlin's name is that blasted thing?" Torn between laughter and annoyance, Sirius gave the Stocking another pull. "You weren't the one who hung it on my fireplace, were you?"  
  
"Me?" The amusement in his eyes probably showed, because Sirius wasn't buying his act of incredulity.  
  
"Yeah, you, you moron. Merry Christmas to you, too. Get it off me, now!" The stocking was now lapping at Sirius' pyjama-clad biceps, already hungry for the shoulder.  
  
Deciding it was time to free his friend, Lupin just touched its tip. "Demis!" Growling with disappointment, the stocking slackened; Sirius pulled out his arm and gave it a thorough inspection to insure it wasn't harmed.  
  
"Can't believe you did that, and on Christmas, too," he mumbled. "Who else got one?" He held his stocking up and admired it. "Nice one, actually. Can't wait to try it on ..." His voice trailed off. He did not have very many acquaintances out of Hogwarts who might still be surprised by this year's joke next Christmas.  
  
"Dumbledore got one, too," Remus said to ward off an embarrassed silence. Sirius pried the CDs, Velcro and thread out of the stocking with extreme care. All gifts were wrapped in colourful paper, which came in handy especially with the invisible items. Sirius was obviously pleased with his gifts and asked Lupin which CD to put on first on this snowy Christmas morning. Lupin found it hard to decide. He went back to his own room and found a few packages at the foot of his bed. Sirius, impervious to tact as always and considerably wealthier than him, had given him some new robes, the first decent ones he had owned in years. He must have owl-ordered from Madam Malkin's as well, Lupin knew, as it was the only way for Sirius to shop. Dumbledore had given Lupin an extra-protective face mask with matching gloves suitable to better ward off the cold of their experiments. His mother had baked him some pies and sown him a new cloak in dragon turquoise, a colour that had been fashionable in 1992. Lupin smiled at her gifts. She was as penniless as her son and had probably gotten the warm and weather-repellent material at a bargain price.  
  
Clothes, he thought. He reckoned he should pay more attention to them, but he could not remember a time in his life when he had not been broke.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Later that day, Sirius and Remus saw a blazing snowball fight just outside their windows and decided to join in. After all, it was the canonical Christmas Day activity. A few minutes later, Sirius was frolicking around with most of the students who had remained at Hogwarts, barking merrily. On his four paws he ran through the whirling white mass, threw over Harry and rolled in the snow with anyone who dared to challenge him. For a moment, Lupin wished he could be a potion-tamed wolf that day; the fun of the snowball fight might have well made up for the pain of the transformation. Yet at least, and unlike some, he'd get to eat at the table during Christmas dinner, he thought when Hermione's snowball dashed his hat from his head. Forgotten were all thoughts about the ridiculous colour of the new cloak he was wearing, or of the fact that had not participated in a snow ball fight for more than twenty years. He hurled snowballs here and there, taking care that he gave as much as he took from the younger snow fighters. Almost half of them were Weasleys: Besides the four youngest who were still schooled at Hogwarts, Bill and Charlie, the eldest two, had come to see Dumbledore on 'order business'. Their serious tasks did not seem to keep them from enjoying themselves in the snow with their siblings, however. Molly and Arthur, who had accompanied them to see their children at Christmas, were presently talking to Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, but they would eat Christmas dinner with everybody tonight.  
  
"Hey, there's Hagrid," Ginny shouted and waved, then got a snowball in the face for sticking her head out of the mass. Gasping, she wiped the icy white mass out of her eyes and looked around to find out whether the culprit had been Fred or George. Meanwhile, Hagrid boomed down at them, then showered Charlie Weasley with a bucket's worth of snow, because that was about the amount that fitted into his two enormous hands. When confronted with Sirius, Fang the boarhound backed off, its tail between its legs. Lupin gathered some snow from the ground and aimed at Hagrid.  
  
When the early December dusk set in, all of them were exhausted and rather wet, so they went back inside to change for dinner. Sirius, of course, would attend in his canine shape, so all he had to do was give his fur a good shake, Lupin thought. He had had the sense of not wearing a new robe outside, but now it was time to put one on. They felt different than the cheap ones, he thought as the garment glided down his shoulders. After drying his hair with a quick spell he hurried downstairs, drawn by delicious smells of food. Christmas at Hogwarts, he thought. It had been a long time.  
  
For Christmas dinner, the house-elves had set up one enormous central table which seated more than thirty. Teachers and students would sit side by side, maybe, Lupin thought, because of the dilemma created by the presence of the Weasley parents: They would want to sit with their children, but banning them to the students' table would not have been very polite.  
  
A few of the teachers were already seated. Dumbledore sat on his usual, richly-carved chair placed in the middle of the table. He was flanked by Minerva McGonagall and Hagrid on his right side, while the seat on his left remained empty. Next to it sat Varlerta, half-turning towards Metheus Quibster, who was bowed over her shoulder, talking animatedly. Chent Flitwick and Heather Sprout occupied seats facing the headmaster. Cosinus Vector was standing on the side, wrapped up in conversation with arrogant Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain. Hufflepuff Susan Bones was leaning against the back of a chair, listening in and doing her best to catch Davies' attention. Lupin knew that her father, a Muggle film director, was busy over Christmas and had asked her to stay at school. Astra Sinistra and a misty-eyed Professor Trelawney appeared to have once more entered the realm of the stars; their hushed conversation was pregnant with omens, predictions and destiny. With them stood Madam Hooch, looking patient. Near the door, Filch was harrowing Ron and Harry about their snow- covered boots. When he saw Sirius crouching at Hermione's feet, the caretaker threatened to work himself into a state. Lupin had to smile when he saw Hermione give him Filch her best impression of doe eyes.  
  
"Oh please, Mr. Filch, it's Christmas, the holiday of love and caring. You would not have the heart to throw a dog out into the cold at Christmas, would you?"  
  
Filch's zeal died away. Hermione is turning into a pretty woman, Lupin noticed. When she had been his student, she had seemed all brains to him, but now he realised that was not all there was to her. Now Ginny Weasley and her Ravenclaw year-mate Cassandra Clearwater were joining the little group, discussing what to wear on the upcoming wedding of their elder siblings. To Cassandra the matter seemed to have far more importance than to Ginny. Two shy first-years Lupin did not know approached them, too, maybe hoping they would not look out of place in the relatively empty Great Hall if they stood around with elder students.  
  
Looking up at the Hall's door, Lupin saw the rest of the Weasley family enter. For an instant, he thought of Percy, the only Weasley child that was not present. Of course, Molly had told him, he had to work extra-hard now to make up for the time he'd lose when going on his honeymoon in February. Still Lupin wondered if maybe his conspicuous absence was mostly due to the fact that only Percy did not take part in the plotting currently going on at Hogwarts. Does Percy know what the rest of his family is fighting for, Lupin wondered, or is this one more family ripped apart by the secrecy that seems to be characteristic for Voldemort's realm of terror? Listening to Molly declare she would put off scolding Fred and George for their joke stockings brought the smile back to his face. He looked up to see the Fat Friar, Nearly Headless Nick and the Grey Lady hover over the table laid with golden plates and goblets. The twelve magnificent Christmas trees shone brightly around them, some of them elegant, others a ridiculous blaze of colour. Christmas at Hogwarts, and the moon is far from full, Lupin thought happily as he took a seat opposite Varlerta and next to Hermione.  
  
When everyone had sat down, two seats were still empty. Just when the many golden platters magically filled themselves with turkeys and chipolatas, the great door opened once more to admit Roary and Snape. Varlerta greeted them with a loud whistle. Heather Sprout hooted, and Astra Sinistra started clapping. Now that Snape had come closer, Lupin saw the reason for the commotion: Snape's hair was black again, once more without a trace of green. Even Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall joined in the cheering; Arthur Weasley and Sibyl Trelawney clapped politely, and Bill banged his spoon on the table as a way of applauding. Only the students refused to show enthusiasm for Snape's changed appearance, and Molly Weasley looked around in bewilderment. Walking behind Snape, Roary grinned broadly, visibly enjoying the reactions to their shared success. Snape kept his head down while walking up to the applauding table. If it had not sounded impossible, Lupin would have said Snape was blushing. He took his place on the headmaster's left with no more than a curt nod to Dumbledore. Roary sat down opposite of him on Lupin's left, occupying the last remaining chair. Now that everyone was seated, Dumbledore rose from his chair to officially open the Christmas dinner with one of his famous short speeches:  
  
"Merry Christmas, everybody, and tuck in!"  
  
Students, teachers and guests started filling their plates with the delicious food the house elves had cooked for them. While offering him some Yorkshire pudding, Varlerta said to Roary: "If you are still apprehensive about the British cuisine, let me assure you that the cooking of Hogwarts' house elves is to be counted among the best of the country. Just give it a try, will you? And if you still don't like it, there's an excellent Indian takeaway in a village just two miles from here."  
  
Roary nodded bravely and let her put food on his plate. Lupin cut up some meat on an extra plate and loaded it with all kinds of Christmas delicacies. When he was sure that Filch was looking the other way, he set the golden plate on the floor in front of Sirius. "Enjoy your Christmas dinner, doggy," he said, giving his camouflaged friends a short pat on the furry head. He should be sitting at the table with us, Lupin thought.  
  
"By the way, you two did a great job today," Varlerta chattered on, looking from Roary to Snape. "It's a comfort to have Verus back to normal. I knew that once you two geniuses attacked the task, mood hair wouldn't have the ghost of a chance."  
  
Keeping his eyes on his sparsely filled plate, Snape moved his lips in a way that almost resembled a smile. Even when Dumbledore pulled a large, shiny cracker with Varlerta, revealing a witch's hat topped with a large, stuffed vulture, even when Varlerta immediately put the hat on her head, Snape did not appear to get angry. However, Lupin wondered if he did not simply misinterpret the fact that Snape's hair failed to turn green. Though he certainly did not regret the scene with the bogart, he still had slight misgivings about ridiculing touchy Severus in public.  
  
While Lupin was carefully de-boning a goose leg for Sirius, remembering that hollow poultry bones were dangerous for dogs and that snouts were not as skilled as wizards holding knives and forks, Snape said:  
  
"By the way, Valerie, where do you keep your guitar these days?"  
  
"In my building," Varlerta mumbled with her mouth full, looking down on her plate in shame.  
  
"Some protectoress you are," Snape chided, half good-naturedly, half serious. "Don't you remember the last feast we had in this hall?"  
  
Varlerta swallowed and put her hand to her breast bone. "Well, of course, you are right, I am getting careless. I do have an emergency instrument with me wherever I go which is small but quite magical. However, I suppose I shouldn't be too lazy to bring the guitar even to Christmas dinner."  
  
"That Icy Finger thing you wrote me about, the affliction of the British, isn't it?" Roary asked. "Actually, I did my homework, and I asked an American spellsearcher about it. You know what she asked me when I showed her all those old newspaper clippings you sent me?"  
  
"Not until you tell me." Varlerta helped herself to some more chips and mushy peas.  
  
"She asked why Icy Fingers was always used on groups. You know, there's not a single case reported when a lonely individual was attacked."  
  
"Because you can get individuals with all sorts of curses," Lupin answered for her. "The dangerous thing about Icy Fingers is that you can attack many people at a time."  
  
From below the table, a dog emitted a short woof. Lupin's and Sirius' eyes met for a second. Sirius thinks it's important, Lupin realised. "We will check this out right after the holiday," he mouthed to the dog who answered by nodding his shaggy head. When Lupin looked back to the table, Varlerta and Roary had already moved on to another topic. They had a habit of talking in half-sentences; each seemed to know what the other one was saying before anybody else at the table could make out what they were talking about, something Lupin found rather irritating.  
  
Between talking with Harry about Quidditch, saving Hermione from impending boredom with a few cheering words, listening to Varlerta's and Roary's New York City gossip and refilling Sirius' plate about four times, the rest of Christmas dinner passed in no time at all. While nibbling at a piece of treacle tart, Varlerta said quietly:  
  
"Why don't you all come over to my place for some after-dinner drinks later? - Butterbeer for the students, of course. Only insiders allowed -" with these words she cast a knowing glance to Sirius on the floor, who was still immersed in his pudding, "so for once he can get a word in, too, not just a woof."  
  
"Yeah, come over," Roary addressed Lupin and Snape. "I brought a crate of imported beer and everything."  
  
Lupin cast a questioning look at Sirius, who nodded his shaggy head.  
  
"Sure, we'll come over," he replied.  
  
Back in Sirius' room, Remus deftly sewed the invisible Velcro into the Invisibility Cloak as he had promised. Decades of mending and re-mending his robes had left him with a certain skill that was even up to the challenge of invisible thread. Sirius had insisted that Varlerta's after- dinner drinks almost sounded like a party and that coming early would be uncool. Visibly relieved that he was allowed to be human for the rest of the evening, Sirius had changed into fashionably cut night-blue robes that accented the colour of his eyes. Even the cracked mirror on the wall, usually a caustic critic, grudgingly told the two wizards they looked nice when they left the room about forty minutes later.  
  
The low building behind the lake looked deserted; no lights whatsoever shone from it; no music or conversation could be heard. Of course, it's soundproof and for its main part windowless, Lupin thought when the front door was opened in response to their knock. Inside, there was light and noise abounding; the stereo was not on full blast, but not on supermarket background volume either. One Hot Minute of the Chili Peppers, Lupin noticed with delight. The music laboratory was packed with people standing or sitting around: As far as Lupin could see, all of the students and a few of the teachers Dumbledore trusted were present.  
  
Varlerta greeted him merrily. "Nice to see you, Mr. Lupin. Brought Mr. Black with you, too?"  
  
After Sirius had followed Lupin into the warmth of the building and closed the door behind them, he took the cloak of and returned Varlerta's greetings. Lupin looked around. One of the sofas was occupied by the Weasley family, Molly and Arthur sitting in the middle, the sons supporting themselves on the arm rests or standing nearby. Ginny stood on the side, looking a bit sulky, now and then casting a longing glance to Harry and Hermione sitting on an amplifier. Roary seemed to have a confidential conversation with Metheus Quibster in a corner. Bill Weasley greeted Lupin with a grin and offered him a beer out of Roary's seemingly bottomless crate. Lupin declined and opted for a Butterbeer. He did not like very much what alcohol did to him; the feeling it invoked in him came to close to the madness of a werewolf for his liking.  
  
Deciding to give Sirius a chance to chat up Varlerta on his own, Lupin took a seat next to Snape. The Potions Master was sitting on the drum riser, clutching a bottle of Butterbeer and looking more than a little lost and uncomfortable. When Lupin sat down by his side, he gave him a sharp look.  
  
"Trying to be sociable, Remus?"  
  
Lupin suppressed a sigh. Trying to be nice, Severus, he replied in his thoughts, though with you it is a fair trial indeed. Aloud he said: "Glad to see you were so successful today. Varlerta says you should market your mood hair cure in the States and make a lot of money."  
  
For the second time that evening, Snape almost smiled. Self-consciously he raised a hand as if to touch his hair, but checked himself in time. "It's quite a relief, to be honest," he answered. Then he looked back at Sirius and Varlerta, and his eyes darkened. Suddenly Lupin saw the outline of a problem he had not considered before. Happily, before he could think of something to say, he saw Ginny tuck at Varlerta's sleeve and say something to the teacher. Varlerta smiled, but shook her head.  
  
"Oh, come on, just a few songs," Ginny insisted.  
  
"There's only the two of us here, and it wouldn't be half the fun. Besides, nobody knows us here, and I don't want to be boring my guests."  
  
"Bill knows you. He says he owns two of your CDs."  
  
Varlerta blushed with pleasure. "Oh, does he? That's cool. Not many people on this side of the Atlantic have even heard of us."  
  
"So you'll play?" Ginny gave Lupin an imploring look.  
  
"It would be nice to hear something of your band," Lupin said obligingly. Even Snape gave Varlerta an encouraging nod, and Sirius also supported Ginny's request. While Varlerta went over to Roary, Ginny gave Sirius a shy look out of the corner of her eyes, but when the wizard looked back at her, she averted her eyes immediately. Teenagers, Lupin thought, giving in to a slight feeling of nostalgia.  
  
After Varlerta had tuned her guitar and made a quiet little announcement, she started to play. Roary fell in with his resonant, slightly husky voice that sounded almost unworldly. The song they played was almost a ballad, but the rhythm was somehow odd. Lupin could not manage to tap his foot with it and after a verse gave up trying; he just let himself carry away by the unfamiliar sound of this strange music. It stirred something in him, though he could not put a name to what that might be.  
  
After the first song, Lupin noticed Ginny sneak up to the drum set. Realising he was leaning his head against the bass drum, he thought it wise to move to a safer corner. He tapped Snape on the shoulder to warn him. The Potions Master looked at him as if he had just awoken from a dream; then incomprehension gave way to a look of slight embarrassment. Both wizards got up. Lupin saw that Ginny was selecting a pair of plastic brushes to play with; he realised that Varlerta and Roary had taken care to play rather softly instead of blasting people's ears away.  
  
Varlerta smiled encouragingly at Ginny when she heard the girl play drums to their second song. She indicated each break to the novice drummer with a raise of eyebrows, and Ginny seemed to find it easy to adapt her playing in speed and volume. Lupin was delighted to hear that Ginny was developing her skill; give her a few more years, and she will not feel out of place in the world anymore, he thought.  
  
After a third song, Varlerta put her instrument away; she and Roary thanked their audience for some subdued clapping. When Ginny voiced her disappointment that the performance was over, Varlerta said: "We are only half a band here, and most of our songs just don't work without Pat and Aisha. If we ever find a way to smuggle our Muggles into this castle, we'll give you a real concert. By then I hope you'll have your own band and will give me a concert in return." She switched off her amplifier.  
  
"Nice job, Ginny," Bill hollered from the other side of the room. "Cool to finally have a musician in the family." Ginny turned the colour of a stop sign. Maybe it was not common for her to be noticed by her oldest brother.  
  
While Sirius went over to Varlerta to compliment her on her performance, Snape quietly excused himself and left. Shortly after, Molly and Arthur Weasley retired, urging Ginny to go to bed soon, too. Ginny looked like she would have liked to disappear into the bass drum. Some of the teachers said goodnight, too. Lupin felt tired himself. He slumped down on the vacated sofa and leant back against the headrest. The music from the stereo gently lulled him into unconsciousness.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When he awoke, the dimly lit room was empty of people. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and Becks formed small phalanxes here and there. Lupin was not sure for how long he had slept, or whether it was day or night. He rubbed his eyes, stretched and got up from the sofa. Falling asleep on a party - how embarrassing, he thought.  
  
He did not want to wake anybody. Years of marauding through the castle had taught him to move silently. Noiselessly he turned the handle of the front door. Through the inch-wide gap he could hear voices.  
  
"Oh, Roary, please don't make this another of these 'let's get Varlerta married off to some dependable nerd'-discussions."  
  
Lupin froze. He heard Roary's low, melodious chuckle. "I'm not trying to marry you off, girl, I'm just pointing your attention to the fact that you have the eyes of two guys follow you wherever you go."  
  
Varlerta sighed, but when she spoke, she sounded more amused than angry. "Come off it, Roary. You are seeing romance wherever you poke your attractive nose. I don't need this. I am fine. Just because you have a happy long term relationship, it does not mean you are the matchmaking champion of the world."  
  
Apparently they had not heard him. Of course, he should make himself heard, yet... Developed in a secluded and lonely childhood as a means of participating in the lives of others, eavesdropping might be the one bad habit he had never been able to kick. Lupin stayed where he was, even his breathing exceptionally quiet. Beyond the door, Roary answered:  
  
"I know it's none of my business, Var, but I can't shed the impression that you are lonely. It's not only the changed circumstances that makes me worry about you, you know. True, you haven't exactly lived the life of a nun these past years, but whatever you found amiss with those guys, you kept kicking them out after a few weeks. I wonder why that is. You can tell me to stop nosing around, but you can't stop me thinking about you."  
  
"So you think Verus and Sirius are interested in me." There was a touch of impatience in Varlerta's voice. "So what, I think. Just look at them, Roary. One of them was packed away to Azkaban for most of his adult life, and the other is living the life of a monk, if I am not mistaken."  
  
"You mean romance-wise, they don't play in your league," Roary said quietly. "No pun intended."  
  
"No..." Varlerta hesistated. "I mean they are not men to be played with, neither of them is."  
  
Silence ensued. Lupin wondered if the moment had come for him to noisily wriggle the door handle.  
  
"Var," Roary did not sound particularly happy. "I'm sorry if I once more sound patronizing, but that's exactly what I'm talking about. You are not supposed to play with love all your life. It's ok when you are sixteen, it's fun when you are twenty-five, but at some point in your life things should get serious. I'm saying act your age. And no, I'm not 'giving you baby-shit,' as you so fittingly termed it. I'm not telling you to settle down in a neat little suburb house. All I'm asking is," his voice was rising a little, "how can it be that there are two men in love with you, and you with them, two to choose from, Var, and still you won't settle on either of them?"  
  
"Roary, you are a wonderful friend. You are a powerful wizard. But as far as I know, you are not a bloody seer. What do you know about my feelings, or their feelings, or anything at all? Come to think of it," there was a touch of sarcasm in her voice, "when you were down at the dungeon with Verus, did he happen to mention me?"  
  
"Er," Roary answered.  
  
"See what I mean?" The triumph in Varlerta's voice was not a happy triumph. "Some adoration, I'm impressed."  
  
"Var," Roary said.  
  
"Ok, let's for the sake of the argument assume you are right. Still there are a few problems," Varlerta went on. "Ok, I like them. I like both of them. That's problem number one, and if you can't see it, then it's not me that's failing to take love seriously. Problem number two, as long as Voldy- Boy, as you so fittingly term it, is on the rise, I don't feel comfortable about establishing a serious relationship with anybody. It would not be fair, you see, because if the time comes to fight, I'm not prepared to run this time, not even for love. Number three - well, I forgot what number three was, but at any rate, it would not work out."  
  
"I admit that your old teenage crush is a bit of a weirdo," Roary answered after a while. "I rather like him, though this may be beside the point. But what about the other guy?"  
  
"It's true, I've been thinking about him quite a bit, lately," Varlerta said with warmth in her voice. When hearing this, Lupin almost congratulated himself on eavesdropping. "He is ... attractive, nice, a bit mysterious and everything. But see - you think I'm so great about making first moves and about having things my way with men. But maybe I'm not. Or maybe I'm just too decent for seducing a guy so obviously bent on settling down as long as I'm not sure about my true feelings, or know what will happen next in my life."  
  
It was Roary's turn to sigh now. "Fair enough, I suppose."  
  
Lupin had heard enough. He did not want to stand behind the door until he was discovered, so he expertly simulated the sound of a latch opening. When he stepped outside into the clear, starry night, he saw Roary and Varlerta sit on a large foundling stone in front of the building, sharing a cigarette (if it was a cigarette).  
  
"Oh, hi there," he said. "Must have fallen asleep." He rubbed his eyes while his conscience called him a vile hypocrite. "Quite embarrassing, actually."  
  
"Not at all," Varlerta replied kindly. "Goodnight to you, Mr. Lupin."  
  
"Goodnight," he replied and made his way back to the castle through the glistening snow. 


	16. Ron

16 - Ron  
  
  
  
"Ron! What are you doing over there on the left again? You've got to keep the whole of the goal guarded, not only one loop!"  
  
Swallowing a cheeky reply, Ron steered his broom in front of the central loop. "Alright, Angelina," he shouted. Why did the captain of the Quidditch team always have to pick on him during practice? True, he was one of the team's latest acquisitions, but if he was not mistaken, Angelina did not correct the new Chaser Rhonda Celps nearly as much as him. For at least the third time that Quidditch practice, Angelina came flying towards him, her face serious.  
  
"Ron, you've got to keep up your concentration, or we'll be flattened by Ravenclaw. If you have to fend off an attack from the side," her right arm indicated the place where Katie Bell had approached Ron's goal, trying to score a hit, "it doesn't mean you can leave the other side unwatched. All the other team has to do is come at you with two Chasers who take turns in the scoring area. If Katie had passed the Quaffle to Rhonda, Rhonda would have entered and scored before you could have changed position."  
  
Ron did his best to nod patiently. It wasn't as if he had not heard it before.  
  
"Never leave the central position before you know where the attack comes from," Angelina reminded him.  
  
"Don't start your lecture over, I'm not that slow," Ron replied angrily. "I know I'm not supposed to leave one side unguarded."  
  
"Then why do you do it?" Angelina asked softly, fixing him with her stare.  
  
Ron wished Angelina would just leave him alone for a practice or two so he could have a go at her requests without feeling watched all the time. He saw the other team members gather around the goal and felt all eyes on him. He wished they would look somewhere else instead of watching him being put down again. Katie and Rhonda seemed to snicker, Fred and George looked at him expectantly, and Harry, doing his best to look uninterested, did not make him feel any better either. I am no good, he thought for maybe the hundredth time. I'm not much of a keeper, and she is already regretting she put me on the team. They try not to hurt my feelings, but neither do they want to keep on playing with a rubbish keeper.  
  
"Ok, folks, let's do this in slow motion then. I'm sure it will be a good exercise for everybody." Angelina hooked her fingers into her thick, wavy hair and frowned in thought. "We will do a Chaser attack No. 6 on the goal as practiced. Katie and Rhonda, we three will make sure we get the moves right, and Ron can take his time to react correctly. Don't forget that nice rotating anti-Stooging movement we practiced, girls, to make sure you are out of the scoring area before the next Chaser enters. We'll do two runs with three slaps, two with two, two runs with two slaps and Bludgers out, then - well, let's take it so far for now."  
  
Ron had read about the slap technique in a footnote of 'Flying with the Cannons', but had never actually imagined there could be any such dreary routine in Quidditch practice. If you did a practice move with three slaps, it meant that whoever caught the Quaffle had to slap the large ball three times with his or her hand before moving on. This gave the rest of the team a second or two to adjust their moves, time you did not get in a real game. As far as Ron knew, Oliver Wood had considered the slap technique as too basic for the Gryffindor team. Now he wondered why Angelina used it so frequently. Did that mean she was a bad team captain, or did it only mean she considered Ron a lousy keeper who was not able to react in adequate time?  
  
Ron brought himself into the required central position while Harry, Fred and George flew upwards to get out of the way. Rhonda, bearing the Quaffle, came at him from the left. Katie approached from the right, bringing herself into position to take the Quaffle and dive into the constrictions of the scoring area if needed, while Angelina hovered in front to fly towards him from below. Ron swallowed. A three-sided attack, his personal nightmare. How, he wondered, was a single and lonely keeper supposed to defend himself against three Chasers? How could he be everywhere at once; how could he properly guard one side without neglecting the others? With his brothers he had often been keeper, but never had they gotten a whole team together. His body had learned to react instinctively when a Quaffle was thrown, but these instinctive reactions, he had to accept, were not what was expected of a Keeper: He had to learn to play with his head, to keep an overview of the Chasers' attack, instead of moving where his body told him to move. While Ron tried to monitor the three girls' movements as well as he could, he felt his spirits sink. Quidditch practice had become a hard task which often involved a good deal of humiliation for him. Why couldn't he be a natural like Harry?  
  
Rhonda threw the Quaffle to Katie, flying backwards just as the other girl entered the scoring area to avoid a Stooging foul. "One-two-three," the experienced Chaser counted breathlessly before throwing the Quaffle back to Rhonda. Ron half-turned, ready for defence but not hopelessly out of place if the Quaffle changed hands again. "One-two-three." Three slaps, slower than Katie's, then a pass downwards. Ron forced down the tip of his brand- new Comet 97. Angelina's upward passes even from outside the scoring area were notorious. He saw the team captain incline to the right. Knowing Angelina, she was faking, he thought when he heard the Quaffle swoosh by his right ear and through the loop.  
  
"Neat," Katie commented without emotions. Come on, Katie, I'm in your team, too, Ron wanted to yell, but the words stuck in his throat. Angelina caught the Quaffle and moved upwards to face him.  
  
"You thought I was faking," she stated. Ron nodded. "Ok, once more, three slaps," Angelina shouted and passed the Quaffle back to Rhonda.  
  
They went through the anti-Stooging practice move again. Rhonda passed to Katie, Katie back to Rhonda, Rhonda down to Angelina. Ron knew he could not afford to make the same mistake twice; he had to be ready for everything. Angelina might fake an attack this time, or pass the Quaffle on, or do exactly the same as last time, namely attempt a goal at once. When the team captain threw the Quaffle from exactly the same angle as in the practice run before, he caught it, but felt no triumph. That wasn't practice, that was just playing 'well, have we learnt our lesson now?'  
  
"Ok, two slaps." Angelina retrieved the Quaffle from Ron without commenting on his meagre success. They went through the move again in the slightly less delayed mode, but this time Angelina passed the Quaffle up to Rhonda again. Rhonda tried to score, but Ron caught the ball and passed it back to her. Angelina nodded to indicate another go.  
  
Practice continued like this for the remainder of the appointed two hours. The Chasers went through pre-determined practice moves with or without slap technique delay, while Bludgers and Snitch were left in their box most of the time. Fred, George and Harry were practicing dives at the other side of the field, probably to keep themselves warm in the icy weather Ron did not feel. He was far to busy watching his goal posts, trying to prevent hits, trying to ignore his body's instinct, to stay in front of the goal even when his body told him he shouldn't. Sometimes he succeeded and sometimes he failed, and even though he had the feeling he was improving slightly, he knew it was not good enough. So far Ron had not made too many mistakes in the two matches they had played; both had been won by the Gryffindor team. However, Ron knew that the Slytherin team presently was no competition to speak of, while Hufflepuff was not only weakened but also dispirited by the loss of their team captain and Seeker. The match against Ravenclaw was another matter altogether. Like Gryffindor, they had not lost a single match that season, which was hardly surprising under the circumstances. "They are pretty good," even team spirit lifter Angelina had conceded. "Their Chasers are even better than pretty good." Ron knew that he could not afford to make mistakes this time. Beating him into shape in practice was a good idea, his reason agreed. Yet he could not help feeling humiliated and resentful.  
  
Back in the changing room, Ron carelessly threw his practice robes and gear into his Quidditch bag and headed off before anybody else was dressed properly enough to follow him out. He did not want to talk to anybody now, not even to Harry. Especially not to Harry, he had to admit. His friend's well-meaning attempts to keep up Ron's spirits did little to re-establish the feeling of equality Ron had experienced when he had been appointed keeper in the team of his friend. While he walked back to the castle, he saw two cloaked figures take a leisurely stroll through the heavily snow- covered grounds. Bushy brown hair ruffled by a slight breeze, a meagre red braid flapping on a cloaked back - Hermione and Ginny. Before they could catch up to have a chat with him, he hastened up to Gryffindor Tower, blind to the beauty of the snow-covered trees, white branches with a slender black lining on bottom.  
  
He took a shower, glad he had opted for the afternoon privacy of the tower bathroom rather than the changing room facilities where Harry, Fred and George would discuss team matters. The steaming hot water running down his back soothed him only a bit. He dried his hair and body with an almost vengeful spell and dressed in his normal robes. Coming out into the Common room, Ron saw Hermione sit on her own in a half-secluded niche, Crookshanks on her lap. She was looking at him rather than at her History of Magic homework. Drawn to her table half against his will, he slumped down into the armchair next to her.  
  
"Dear me, it's Weasley Crisis Day," Hermione said, but her eyes were friendly.  
  
"I'm fine," Ron growled.  
  
Hermione opened her mouth as if to object, but closed it again without saying anything. She moved her books and parchment to make room for him, even though he had not brought any homework material with him.  
  
"So what's wrong with Ginny?" Ron asked when her comment had sunk in.  
  
The Gryffindor Prefect straightened her pile of books. On top of it lay her Defence Against the Dark Arts Magic Log. Ron noticed it bore a roman number three on its cover. He had not touched his in ages, probably had not filled more than three pages of the first notebook. Hermione shrugged. "The usual," she replied.  
  
"Oh, come on, that's stupid," Ron complained. "She can't be serious, er, I mean.."  
  
Hermione nodded and fiddled with her quill. "I know what you mean, but we can't choose with whom we fall in love, can we?" she said softly.  
  
"But - I mean, he's old." Ron kept his voice down, embarrassed by his sister's foolishness. Since shortly after Christmas, Ginny had been prone to crying fits. When Harry and he had persisted in asking, Hermione had told them the reason after making them promise that Ginny's secret would go no further.  
  
"I don't think there's anything to worry about that," Hermione replied. "She's fourteen. Girls of that age do that, I mean develop crushes on unattainable adults, and they usually forget about them a few weeks later."  
  
"Did you, too?" Ron asked rebelliously. Last year it had begun to dawn on him that girls lived on another planet altogether, even though Hermione usually seemed to be comparably down-to-earth.  
  
Hermione blushed. "No, I didn't."  
  
"Not even a crush on a teacher? Come on, admit it, you were in love with Professor Lupin," Ron teased her, suddenly finding the game enjoyable. Again Hermione shook her head. "A nerd like Vector then? Oh no, you must be lusting after Professor Snape - a Prefect with a taste for the bizarre. Or even better, Filch? Wait, I've got it - the most unattainable male in this castle must be Professor Binns."  
  
Both of them were laughing now. Hermione Bannished a cushion at him.  
  
"I never told you about teenage boys," she said, keeping her voice low and mysterious. "This morning my tea leaves told me that you are destined to marry Professor Trelawney one day, when you're older. Much older, I should say."  
  
Ron threw the cushion back at her. Crookshanks protested with a cat profanity, but did not leave his comfortable spot on Hermione's lap. "You should have stayed in her class with your ability to predict truly horrible things."  
  
She laughed, but instead of replying turned back to her books.  
  
"It's funny, though," Ron said, unwilling to let her attention wander off to her homework, which meant depriving him of an excuse not to do his. He bent over his armrest to stroke the short fur on Crookshank's nose. The ugly cat rewarded him with a purr. "Everybody kept going on about how she was infatuated with Harry, and now - I mean, do you think there's something not right about Ginny?" Troublesome as his little sister could be, he felt a bit bad about the fact that Hermione seemed to know what was going on in Ginny's life, while he didn't. The crying fits were new, and they worried him.  
  
Hermione leant back in her squashy armchair, spatially distancing herself from the demands of a table full of books and parchments. "I could tell you a few things about her, Ron, but I'm not sure I should. The things she confided in me are, you know, girl things. I shouldn't have told you two anything about it in the first place, because I now see that was a breach of trust. I didn't tell Ginny I told you about it either, and I feel bad about that, too."  
  
Ron leant towards her over the armrest of his chair. "I'm her brother, you know," he said. "Mum told me to keep an eye on her at Hogwarts, especially after that thing that happened in her first year. She always seems to worry about Ginny more than she worries about the rest of us. Do you think that's because she's a girl?"  
  
"Am I a mind reader? How am I supposed to know what your mother thinks?" Hermione snapped a little harsher than usual, then relapsed into silence. Ron waited her out. He knew from experience that when Hermione did not want to tell him something, she wouldn't, so probing and harassing her with questions would not help. The only thing that might make her decide to tell him more was silence. After a minute or two, his patience was rewarded.  
  
"It's not easy for her, you see, because things are pretty complicated," Hermione said softly. "Ginny suspects that Sirius and Professor Varlerta might become a couple, and although she knows perfectly well that it is out of place for her to have a crush on Sirius, it really bothers her. She likes Professor Varlerta a lot, you know, and now she's jealous, and thinks she shouldn't be. She is berating herself for her feelings because she knows Sirius is an adult and has no interest in teenage girls. Of course, if he had he would be quite a sicko, which luckily he isn't, at least I'm pretty sure he isn't. At the same time Ginny feels she is being disloyal to Professor Varlerta, but right now she doesn't know whether she likes her or hates her. You see, there's nothing to worry about, Ginny is just having a horrible time at the moment, but as I said, I'm sure it will pass."  
  
While he listened to Hermione, Ron felt his jaw drop. He touched his hand to his chin to push it up again, but while he could adjust his facial expression, he could not readily adjust to all these amazing and frightening new insights. It was as if Hermione was turning his world upside down with a few sentences.  
  
"Wait a minute." Ron could hardly decide which of her outrageous allegations to question first. "I can't believe you said that. Didn't you hear what they said about Professor Varlerta? She is - I mean, she's not necessarily the enemy or the traitor, but she's You-Know-Who's daughter, so she can't possibly get married to Sirius, can she?"  
  
Hermione tried to hide a hint of giggling behind her hand. "Stop jumping ahead of time, Ron. Nobody said anything about marriage, we are just talking about stuff that may or may not happen. And about Professor Varlerta being a traitor - you know Dumbledore trusts her, and that should be enough for us."  
  
"Dumbledore trusted Quirrel." Ron whispered imploringly, counting on his fingers. "He trusted the fake Moody and never batted an eye. He trusted Barty Crouch Senior. He never doubted Sirius' guilt for a second until we told him what really happened, he never doubted Peter Pettigrew's death and never knew that Sirius and his friends were Animagi. Dumbledore trusts Snape even though he knows Snape was a Death Eater, and now he trusts the daughter of You-Know-Who, who, by the way, is friends with Snape. They might very well be partners in crime. There seems to be a traitor in the secret order, but Dumbledore doesn't do a thing. Maybe he is losing his touch. He's been wrong so many times now."  
  
"Dumbledore trusts Lupin, even though he's a werewolf," Hermione replied slowly. "He trusts Hagrid even though he is a half-giant. He kept faith in Harry when everybody thought him the heir of Slytherin. So did we. You think that's wrong, too?" Ron shook his head, unhappy that he could not convince her. Hermione went on: "Ginny trusts Professor Varlerta, too. When we had a walk outside, she called her an old bitch, a great teacher, a cool musician and a stupid slut, but never a traitor."  
  
"She trusted Tom Riddle, too, and it nearly got her killed," Ron answered dryly.  
  
Hermione rubbed her face with both hands. Suddenly she looked less sure of herself than a minute ago. "It's ghostly, isn't it?" she finally asked. "I never really asked Ginny about what happened, because back then we weren't really friends, and later I did not want to bring up any painful memories. It's only today that she talked about it. She said she tried to forget about it, but now everything is coming back to her. And you know what? She says she's getting more and more confused because Professor Varlerta is the spitting image of Tom Riddle from the diary. Of course, she's female and older and alive and everything, but Ginny says they really look alike, have the same face, the same eyes and so on. Ginny doesn't draw any conclusions from this other than that apparently Professor Varlerta really is Riddle's daughter, and neither do I. It's just a little creepy."  
  
A growing discomfort was threatening to overwhelm Ron. "Ginny is at her building every day. It can't go on like this. We've got to do something about it before something terrible happens to my sister." He started to rise from his chair only to be pulled back by Hermione's hand.  
  
"Don't be stupid, Ron," she whispered. "The reason I think Professor Varlerta is no traitor is that everybody knows who she is. When Moody said so, a lot of people were surprised, but others weren't. Dumbledore was as cool as ice, didn't you remember? All he wanted was to avoid a brawl in his meeting. I don't think Ginny is in danger from Professor Varlerta, and neither are we. Just think about your parents. They know about it, too, and they are not worried, are they?"  
  
Ron shook his head. For a while, he just said there, returning Hermione's stare. Then he broke eye contact. He had to think things over on his own later, but for now he just wanted to change the subject. For lack of a better suggestion he asked: "How about a game of chess?"  
  
Hermione gave him a crooked grin. "How about writing our History of Magic essays? I bet you haven't finished yours."  
  
Ron thought for a moment, then got up to fetch his things. "Might as well. Will you let me copy?"  
  
Hermione sighed and hooked her fingers into Crookshank's fur. "You'll never grow up, will you?" But after he had returned with his books and parchments, she did not object when he pulled her first role of parchment towards him and jotted down some notes. She had a point in refusing to let him copy it word for word, he had to concede, as even Binns was bound to notice. But sometimes she let him use her work as a kind of quarry. If he did not want to practice developing his own thoughts, that was his problem, or so she said.  
  
A few minutes later, Harry came to the table as well with his school books, but as soon as he had sat down, Angelina walked over to consult him on team affairs. Ron knew that she often talked things over with Harry so he would get used to making decisions for the team. It seemed to be accepted as fact that he would be the Gryffindor Quidditch captain next school year after she got her NEWTs. Ron sighed and wondered if he would even still be on the team then.  
  
"Don't worry so much about the team, Ron," Hermione said gently, her gaze probably following his. "You did fine these last two matches. And even though you may disagree, I'm reminding you that after all, it's only a game."  
  
"While OWLs are the blood and the marrow of life," Ron answered. Hermione smiled, her eyes focussed on infinity. Ron hoped she would not take that as an invitation to continue their discussion about Ginny, because the subject made him uncomfortable, but Hermione looked back down on her parchment. She finished the sentence she had been writing before the interruption, then said:  
  
"So how about the pawn - taught it any rules yet?"  
  
"Nope." Ron was glad to put down his quill. To him, the Wizard Intermarriage Laws of 1726 were a topic as boring as any. "It's still bent on doing its own thing on the chessboard, tries to take pieces that face it directly, moves several paces at once and hits back when it is attacked. Mr. Pigmalgion told me to keep on trying, but said I should consider it as a first attempt. I think he's trying to tell me the polite way that the pawn is useless and will never be a proper game piece."  
  
Hermione nodded. "It's your first attempt, that's true. What does it do instead of being a useful pawn?"  
  
"It sits on my trunk and insults me whenever it sees me," Ron replied casually.  
  
"Why should it insult you?" Hermione twisted a bushy curl between her fingers. "That seems to be very ungrateful."  
  
"Anarchy pawn, George calls it. A useless and impolite little thing, really. Professor Varlerta said I should try Coaxing it, of course, but the pawn only laughed at me. I wonder what the Bludger will turn out." Mr. Pigmalgion had given him a bigger object to practice on now that the practice pawn showed signs of a will of its own. Ron had been delighted to get a Quidditch ball on which to practice his doubtful Ensouling skills.  
  
"Oh yes. Did you use it in practice today?" Hermione looked interested.  
  
Ron shook his head. "Mr. Pigmalgion insists that nobody but me should touch the Bludger until it can fly on its own, and of course, it would not make much sense to practice with a lifeless Bludger, either. Actually, I have no idea what to do with it. How do you train a Bludger - hurl it at people and see wheter it gets the hang off it? What's more, I simply do not have time to throw it around when there's so many real Quidditch practices every week."  
  
"Not to mention the upcoming OWLs," Hermione commented.  
  
"Not mention them? Don't even try, Hermione. There's things between heaven and earth that are even beyond your formidable powers."  
  
Again Hermione sent the cushion flying at him, then turned back to her essay. She could not concentrate properly, it seemed; her quill hovered unused over the parchment for a while. Ron watched her, himself unable to force his mind to such vile things as 'inbreeding in the dynasties of the magically gifted Egyptian Pharaohs.' For almost a minute, neither of them moved. Then Hermione turned to Ron and gave him a strange look.  
  
"Could you do me a favour, Ron?"  
  
Ron shrugged. "Sure, if I can."  
  
"Could you get me Harry's parents' Spellsearchers' log out of the boys' dormitories?" 


	17. Snape

17 - Snape  
  
  
  
It was one of these nights when he dreaded sleep, when he tried to put it off until fatigue forced him to lay down. Somehow he felt the nightmares creeping up behind him as if waiting for the minute he closed his eyes. If he kept awake long enough, he might sleep dreamlessly. Of course there were potions that might assure the same, but it was better to use them on occasions of special need only. For him the threat of nightmares was always there, so he did not dare use potions that might get him addicted to them over the time.  
  
Snape sat down on the edge of his narrow cot, staring into the flame of a single magical candle on the table beside the bed. His room deep down in the dungeon was as plain as a cell, the only luxury in it, with exception of the grandfather clock he had inherited from a distant relative, were a couple of spells that kept it dry. Defying luxuries was just one more way of proving he had left his parents' influence behind him: They had constantly tried to appear as a wizard family older and wealthier than they actually were.  
  
He had brought a mouldy old book from his office where he kept all his important things, hoping to kill time by studying a complicated matter, but found he could not keep his mind on it. As rather often in the last few months, he fought to keep his thoughts off the memories that kept him awake at night - fought but lost. After all, he could not forget.  
  
As a student he had always spent his time with his Slytherin gang. He would not call them friends; especially after Valerie had disappeared, he had come to realise he rather despised than liked them. He'd made a few attempts to get real friends outside the stiff hierarchies of the Slytherin house, but found his reputation prevented this. The rebuke he'd received from Potter, Black and their bunch after he had attempted - clumsily, he had to admit - to strike contact with his Gryffindor year mates had hurt his pride in a way he had never truly overcome. His one or two tries to secure himself a girlfriend among the more eligible younger witches of his house had also failed, wounding him in the same way. By the time he got his top grade NEWTs, he didn't try anymore. He had never really broken with his Slytherin gang; when his connections got him a well-paid job at Avery Potion Making, he didn't think about it twice. His parents approved of his choice of profession, claiming that it was truly in the Slytherin tradition of the family. Snape hung out with his old friends, and when they asked him to join the Death Eaters, he did. He let Lord Voldemort put his mark on him.  
  
Snape never talked about his time as a Death Eater and did his best to forget it, but it haunted him to this day. Being a relative newcomer, he had never actually killed anybody. But he had stood by and watched; he hadn't interfered, and after a while they had taught him to torture people. There was no denying that he hadn't left the Death Eaters even though he knew he'd be expected to kill, too, very soon. During his time with them he had helped other Death Eaters to break into the houses of their victims; he had conjured up the Dark Mark in the sky to let everybody know they had come to kill, and he had hurt people beyond the power of words. Some victims had been on their knees, pleading for their lives and for the lives of their loved ones. He could still hear the screams of terror, the voices of the tortured, and see the pain-distorted faces when he closed his eyes. They lurked in his dreams.  
  
He could not tell why he had not done what was in his power to stop the Death Eaters, or, if too cowardly to die the death of a hero, why he hadn't tried to run. He remembered these days as a blur of terror and dark fascination with the power he suddenly wielded. And of course she had been there, dealing out the power, promising pleasure and pain. The torturer that had become the tortured in the end - he shuddered when he thought of her.  
  
Had he believed in what he was doing back then? He could not tell anymore. It seemed to him he had just followed orders, had run with the crowd, drifting in and out of evil deeds without putting his own judgement to use. That night at their group's headquarters they had been planning the death of several witches and wizards; he remembered vaguely that it had come to him as a bit of a shock that he knew some of the names on the death list as former schoolmates. While he was still staring at the names of the people in whose death he was to participate actively for the first time, a loud bang startled all the hooded and masked wizards in the room: Their security spell had violently been broken.  
  
For a second all of them stood as if Stunned, then a panic broke out. Everybody tried to find a way out, just any way. Somebody shoved Snape; someone else stepped on him. Before he knew what was going on, he was the only Death Eater in the room, lying on his back, aching all over and looking into the black protective mask of an Auror bending over him. A wand was pointed straight at his face. "Move an inch, and you're dead," a steely, high-pitched voice snarled. A gloved hand roughly tore away the mask from his face, then stopped dead in the middle of the movement. "Verus!" the voice said softly but intensely.  
  
The Auror straightened and gave him a hand up, though not without pocketing Snape's wand. He knew her then for the friend he had once had at school. "Don't tell me you're one of them," she said with a sadness in her voice that hurt him in a place inside of him that he had considered dead for years.  
  
After a moment's hesitation, she pulled him towards a window. "Let's get out of here. We're going to blow up the whole place!" Outside, she ran to a bush about twenty steps off, hanging on to his arm with an iron grip. He felt numb; even though he knew he was facing a life sentence in Azkaban, flight simply did not occur to him.  
  
As they ducked behind the bush, Valerie blew a signal on the silver whistle that hung around her head. Others blew the same two-note sequence in response from further away. After the seventh signal, she said "alright" in a grim voice. Then she pointed her wand at the building, shooting a huge ball of fire at it. Others seemed to have done the same. With a deafening noise, the headquarter building collapsed into dust particles.  
  
With a gasp Valerie pulled off her mask to reveal a beautiful face which Snape knew and did not know at the same time; her black hair was matted with sweat and dirt at the temples but fell over her shoulders like a sheet of silk. The light of the fire shone on her skin. He just said the first thing that came into his mind:  
  
"You're too young to be an Auror."  
  
She looked him straight into the eyes. "So? You're too nice to be a Death Eater, yet we are both here."  
  
Her gaze seemed to focus on something beyond him for a moment, then she said: "I don't really want to send you to Azkaban, so you will have to change sides tonight. Are you prepared?" He nodded, because he could not find enough breath to speak. "I'll have to rejoin the others. Hide until we are gone, then get rid of these clothes as fast as you can and go to Dumbledore. He'll know what to do. Maybe you can spy for us." Again he nodded, unable to take his eyes off her. "You promise?" she asked, holding his gaze. "I promise," he finally managed to croak. She reached into her robe pocket and gave him back his wand, squeezing his hand in hers for a moment. "We'll see each other again," she said, locking his eyes again. Then she was gone.  
  
Somehow Snape managed to get to Hogwarts without being discovered. He told Dumbledore of the horrors he'd seen as a Death Eater, that he'd seen the error of his ways and would try to make up for it with any task as dangerous as the headmaster could find for him. Somehow it would have sounded silly to say he had promised this to someone he had known years ago at school. Dumbledore believed his story and agreed to make him a spy. Snape told a grim-looking committee of Aurors all he knew and returned to the his day job as Potion Designer and to the nightly crimes of the Death Eaters, sneaking out to Hogwarts in secrecy to betray their names and plans. It was a dangerous job, but for some reason, they never suspected him until it was too late, maybe because they found it amusing to have him around. Helped by a tiny flask hidden in his sleeve, Snape had taken to vomiting at every scene of torture or death to avoid having to participate in it. The other Death Eaters never forced him to, but neither did they tire of chasing him around the scene of the crime with cut-off limbs oozing blood, a sport that seemed to enhance their enjoyment. Of course, his abstention had not helped the victims one whit. He might as well have tortured them himself.  
  
Never in all this time had Snape seen Valerie, or had heard anybody speak of her. Between some hideous and dangerous tasks that required all his attention, he started to think a lot about her. Had she tried to contact him? Was she alright? Not knowing who else to talk to, he once more turned to Dumbledore, asking if he had ever heard of her again.  
  
"It is strange that you should mention her," the headmaster had pondered, his forehead deeply wrinkled. "She obviously trained as an Auror for a time under an assumed name. To be accepted for Aurors' training, she provided a fake Hogwarts NEWTs degree dated four years back. They found out who she was only when she was investigated after she let a Death Eater escape at a raid. She was to be sent to Azkaban, but managed to get away. I believe she has fled the country."  
  
"That Death Eater was me! She sent me to you to be a spy or I would still be one of them. I know that she is not a traitor!"  
  
Dumbledore had given him a sharp look. "You should have said that straight away - it might have helped her case. However, I am not sure whether we can trust her. I shudder to think it is in her power now to betray you to the Death Eaters."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
What would have happened if he had told Dumbledore the whole story straight away? He had been wondering all these years. Would they have believed her? Would they have permitted her to continue her training as an Auror? Would she have stayed in Britain, would she have come to see him at Hogwarts, would she have loved him? Would she maybe even have managed to exorcise some of the demonical memories that lived on inside of him? Snape stared into the flame of his candle, feeling that rest would not come easily that night.  
  
A sharp rap at the door startled him back into the present. It was way past midnight, when most people in this castle would be asleep. He was not used to being disturbed at night. With a frown he opened, only to find Valerie standing outside his door.  
  
Still in the grip of his memories, he felt a strong urge to touch her face, to pull her into his cell and tell her all the things that were on his mind. Her burning eyes and her ashen face told him she had come to see him for reasons of her own, though. "I need to talk to you, Verus," she said.  
  
He offered her a seat on his cot as there was no chair in his room, then sat down at the far other end, not daring to come closer. She had caught him at a moment when he had his defences down, and he found it difficult to collect himself. "Talk," he said curtly.  
  
She took a deep breath; the faintest flush returned to her cheeks. "I thought about the things you said about my method a couple of months ago, that it's worthless if it can't be tested against Avada Kedavra, and I realised you are right."  
  
Admittedly, the Strengthening methods of Professor Varlerta were not among the things preying on his mind right now. In his confusion it took him a moment to find the correct reply to her announcement. "Then you'll stop your silly research?"  
  
"Oh no! What I mean is, I'm prepared. I want to test it tonight, so I need your help."  
  
"You don't mean that I -" Snape suddenly had the impression that the room started to slightly spin around him. "Oh no, I won't. This is madness, and you know it! I won't do it this time."  
  
"Yes, you will. I'm sure it is safe. I've double- and triplechecked everything, and I've got extra help from another full moon visit to the stone circle yesterday. Now all I need is the practical test. Don't worry, I'm neither suicidal nor out of my mind."  
  
Snape was groping for words, any words that might convince her she was wrong. He felt slightly nauseous. "Valerie, if this goes wrong, there's no way back. You will die, no matter how firmly you believe in your method. You see why I can't help you this time."  
  
"I told you it's safe." She held her back very straight and looked sure of herself. "Anyways, I've drawn up a document saying that the whole responsibility of this experiment rests with me and that everything happens in the name of research. It's watertight, don't worry."  
  
"That's not my worry," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm saying I will not point a wand at you and attempt to kill you, no matter in the name of what or who."  
  
"You will have to," she said matter-of-factly. "I am sorry, but no one else will do. I know that you know how to do it and that you are powerful enough to do it properly. You know my method and won't try to curse me at the wrong time, or mess it up any other way, which might prove to be fatal. And I know I can trust you, no matter what. The method has to be tested, and is has to be tested soon, so I can teach it to as many students as possible if it works."  
  
"If it doesn't work, you won't be able to teach it to anyone anymore."  
  
"Doesn't matter." She wiped his objection away with a movement of her hand. "As you said, it's worthless if it can't help us against the Death Curse. Anyways, I know it will work, because I perfected it. So come on, let's get it done, so we don't have to worry about it any more."  
  
She got to her feet, offering him her hand. He ignored it and got up. When she walked out of the dungeon's door without another word, he followed.  
  
On the way through the pitch dark grounds to her building, he tried once more.  
  
"In earnest now, you can't be serious about this. It is nothing but utter foolishness to take such a tremendous risk just in the name of research."  
  
She did not slow her step until they had arrived at her door. After opening the door with her ridiculous password she said to him: "Some of us take deadly risks every day. Aurors do, and the witches and wizards that keep a guard on Azkaban, and some of the people from the ministry. It's not exactly like you never risked your life as a spy. You would never give up an important project at this stage of the operation, I know that much. I'd rather take this risk now when I'm in Hogwarts in safety than wait until the moment I'm facing him without knowing whether or not I'm protected."  
  
There was something deadly wrong in her line of argumentation, but he somehow couldn't find words to express it here and now on her doorstep, so he followed her inside. The dark main room greeted them with many small green and red lights. When she ignited the magic torches, he saw that everything was ready: All the magical-electronic instruments were switched on, as indicated by little beads of coloured light on their armatures. On a stand in front of the box she called an amplifier stood her guitar, the mother-of-pearl inlay of rose and serpent gleaming in the sudden blaze of light. So she had known he would do it all along, he thought grimly. The brightness of the room stung his eyes; he rubbed them absentmindedly while she took two pairs of her magic ear protectors from one of the blinking boxes. Kneading them in her fingers without looking at him, she said:  
  
"Ok, here's my safety briefing. To make sure it won't go wrong, I'll stand in the ideal spot between the two large speakers for now; you best stand back there beside the door. We'll put on the earies, and you'll give me about two minutes to build up my wall of sound. When I'm ready for you, I'll nod. Don't be shy about it, just give me the full blast." She laid one of the protectors in his hand; he went to the spot she had indicated, still holding it. Valerie put on her pair of ear protectors, strapped the guitar over her shoulder and retrieved her dragon scale plectrum from the slit she had stuck it in.  
  
"Don't forget your earies," she said, oblivious to the fact that she was talking too loudly as she could not hear herself. He found it difficult to put the protectors on his head correctly because his hands were shaking, but finally he nodded towards her. She took a deep breath and then put the shiny plectrum to the strings, doing something or other with the fingers of her left hand. When the strings started to vibrate she turned to the device she called speaker to get the effect she called feedback.  
  
As in the duel they had fought in this room before, he felt the impact of the sound on his body before he heard the small fraction of it which his ear protectors let through. The vibration enveloped him, tingling on his skin and dazing his mind. As much as he found Valerie's Muggle guitar garish and appalling, there was something in her music that spoke to him even if he tried to ignore it. Tonight there was more in the sound than just music. The feeling of power coming up from the soil beneath itself was even stronger than the last time he had stood here facing her, wand in his hand. Something between his eyes or maybe within his nose started to ache slightly, and he felt his throat close as if overwhelmed with emotion. He could sense the strength she gathered around her and with a surge of relief realised she would succeed and his curse would fail.  
  
Just that moment he saw her nod at him. Her eyes were burning, but her mouth was set with determination. Slowly he rose his wand and pointed it at her, trying to remember the words we was supposed to say. While searching his mind for them, he found a stream of warmth and happiness flowing up through his legs into his stomach. Suddenly he felt strong, powerful, almost almighty. She turned around to face him, looked afraid of him for an instant. A strange joy flooded him. He knew the words now, knew he could utter them.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!"  
  
He heard his voice even through his ear protectors. A blaze of green light shot out of his wand, blinding him painfully. He felt his back slam into the wall. The wand in his hand seemed to sing a wild tune which he rather felt than heard. Swirls of purple spots danced before his eyes, clouding his vision. He tried to call her name, then groped for his ear protectors until he managed to tear them off. Snape rubbed his eyes them until he could see the room again. Valerie lay flat on her back, deadly pale, eyes closed. Her left hand still gripped the guitar, its position odd as if it was dislocated. All the strings on her instrument were broken, poking out at odd angles. He could not see her chest rising or falling. Cold fear filled his lungs.  
  
Within a second, he was at her side, shouting her name, shaking her and trying to find a pulse on her right wrist. Her hand was clammy and cold, her lips bloodless. He called her name again, then, retaining a minimum of sense, removed her ear protectors. Still she did not stir when he called her.  
  
He sat at her side, her cold hand in his, unable to move or think. The room seemed to go in and out of focus, a frame of darkness closing in on his mind. Seconds passed like hours. Then suddenly her eyelids fluttered; he could feel the faintest wriggle in the fingers he had clasped in his. Her eyes opened and finally focussed on his. Her lips distorted into a smile; a cut where she must have bit her lower lip started to bleed. "Told you I could do it," she whispered.  
  
The numbness in his mind subsided only gradually. He stared at her, watched her unclasp her left from her guitar and withdraw her right from his hand, wriggling her fingers, then kneading one hand with the other for a few seconds. She sat up and clumsily disengaged her guitar strap from her neck, trying to place the instrument on its stand. He took the guitar from her hand and found its stand which had been blown away into one of her many devices. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he noticed that in fact a lot of things in the room had been blasted about, that the place looked like it had been hit by a minor earthquake. Something felt definitely wrong inside his body.  
  
"Told you I could do it," she had said. He helped her get up as she seemed almost too weak to stand. She braced herself on the amplifier, her face looking ashen but somehow smug. "Told you I could do it." He stared at her, hearing the sentence over and over in his head, louder and louder, until it became a deafening roar. His face felt oddly tense, his throat ached, his hands clenched. He realised he was gripping her shoulders, shaking her and screaming in her face.  
  
"How could you do that? How could you make me do that? You don't care a slimy dragon dung about me, do you? Safe, huh? That was about as safe as a game of Uncontrollable Pool, if you ask me! And you would have me be your murderer, is that it? Provide me with a note that says it's alright to kill you in the name of science, and everything's fine? What a great friend, you impress me with your consideration! Don't you think I have enough nightmares already?"  
  
He shoved her against the amplifier. She gasped as she slammed into it, swayed for the fraction of a second and then stood straight before him, chin up, holding his gaze. She took a deep breath.  
  
"I know I did you wrong, and I'm sorry for it, but I saw no other way. And I can't say I regret it, even though it was a near miss. I thought the shield was perfect, but you showed me the flaw in it. I didn't know it was possible to tap the power my spell gathers from the soil, but you just did, probably without even planning to. Well, now I know better and will find ways of preventing it. Yell at me all you like, I can take it and probably deserve it, but I know I did the right thing."  
  
He had himself under control well enough by now to stand before her without tackling her physically again. The heat of his anger had cooled down as fast as it had flared up, but beneath it he found a cool wrath, and, deeper yet, its burning core of pain. He tasted bitter gall in his mouth; his voice was reduced to an evil hiss.  
  
"Oh, you did me wrong, but you did the right thing at the same time, did you now? I tell you what, I've got enough of your games once and for all. The thought of you makes me sick. Find someone else to play with, maybe Sirius Black or whoever else you're currently seducing, but leave me alone from now on. I'll never forgive you as long as I live."  
  
For once, she had no fitting reply in store, but just stood there looking at his feet rather his eyes. He turned on his heels and left, but not quickly enough to miss the words she said softly before he slammed the door shut after him:  
  
"I'm sorry I abused our friendship, Verus, but I hope you will forgive me before we die." 


	18. Lupin

18 - Lupin  
  
"Want some?" Penthesilea Finnegan was pouring a cup of hot tea from her flask and offered it to him. Lupin accepted with a nod. The screw-on cup was a warm source of comfort in his hand. He thought he had tasted a hint of March in the air already only yesterday, a fragrance of the spring to come, but tonight the air was still icy. Probably it never got warm on this forsaken island, Lupin thought grimly while blowing gently on the steaming liquid until he could touch his lips to it.  
  
While Lupin was savouring the heat of the tea, Penthesilea checked their crystal observance balls. She tapped each of them with her wand to get a better look around. The observance balls were a neat piece of magic, he mused. He knew she had lent a hand in making them, so he told her when she had completed her control round. The witch accepted the compliment with an absent nod, prodding the slightly reluctant crystal ball number seven with her wand again as if to signal that the observance system had its deficiencies, too. She should not downplay her own achievement like that, he thought as he contemplated her dark silhouette against the night-blue sky. The moon, not much more than a reassuring semi-orb yet, had risen between the teeth-like pinnacles of the menacing, black building looming in front of them. Moaning seagulls circled like vultures. The breeze brought a bone-biting moisture to them which even his mother's cloak could not keep off for long, but maybe it was rather the sadness in his heart that weighed him down.  
  
Lupin shivered, reminding himself not for the first time tonight that he was lucky, lucky, lucky. Not only was the night eventless like it should be. No, most important of all, he was outside. Not inside, no, and if nothing unexpected happened, he would never be. Lupin pulled his cloak tightly around him, knowing that inside, no cloak would help. Was that the reason he had never executed his plan to go there, he wondered - was it only cowardice? Slowly he shook his head, if only for his own benefit. He had had his reasons, even if the reasons were wrong. From the past's point of view it made sense, but that did not stop him feeling a kind of retrospective shame because he had not once in all those years visited his friend in Azkaban.  
  
A sudden movement of Penthesilea pulled him back into the presence. She noticed him start and turned to him to shake her head, her silver nose stud gleaming in the moonlight. "It was just one of these damn birds," she said softly. He nodded, knowing from his own experience that the crystal balls could trick even the trained eye at times. And of course, between the convicted Death Eaters pining inside, the Dementors lurking on the premises and the ever-present threat of a Death Eater attack coming from the mainland, they were scared of their shadows. Moody's got it right, Lupin thought grimly. If there's an attack, we are lucky to live long enough to send a message to Dumbledore via crystal ball, but apart from that, we won't be of any use anymore, neither here nor anywhere. He took a therapeutical chocolate bar out of their medicine bag and bit into it to throw his sinking heart a life buoy. If he kept this up, he'd be putting on weight and getting pimples soon, he thought. The other members of their secret guard had already complained about the effect their chocolate intake had on them.  
  
Now it was Penthesilea's turn to sip some tea. Lupin cast a sidelong glance at the tall witch who had been promoted head of the Department for International Magical Co-operation after the demise of Barty Crouch. She doesn't look like someone who sits in an office all day, he thought. After a while, he voiced his thoughts aloud: "Do you ever get scared around here? Get the feeling you should just leg it while you still can?"  
  
"Sure, all the time." Her voice suggested that it had been a stupid question. Maybe it had been. Probably none of their group ever came here feeling he or she did it by choice. He knew it was not a non-sequitor when she asked: "Have you ever - seen her?"  
  
Lupin shook his head. "Never been inside the place, actually," he replied. "Avoided it like the plague." Avoided Sirius, an inner voice commented dryly. Deserted Sirius. But before his usual guilty brooding could catch up with him again, Penthesilea's voice softly intruded, turning his attention from his memories to hers:  
  
"I was there at the court when they convicted her, thirteen years ago. I was quite young then and thinking of becoming a magilawyer. The Death Eater trials put me off it, actually. I still remember the four of them - Charles and Dolores Lestrange, Mordred Crabbe and Barty Crouch Junior. Of course they were guilty as hell, but at that time I wasn't so sure about young Barty, like many people. It was a dreadful night in the court room. But that wasn't the only thing that scared me off - the ruthlessness of the court. I think she must have scared me just as much, Dolores Lestrange, you know. She just sat there and nothing touched her - not her guilt, not her life sentence or that of her husband, not the screams of young Barty, not the contempt of the public - nothing."  
  
"They say she was something like You-Know-Who's second-in-command," Lupin murmured. In such close proximity to Azkaban, even he avoided uttering the name that most witches and wizards feared. "The head of the Death Eaters, the one who ran the show in many respects. If what they said about Varlerta's family relations at the last order meeting is true, Dolores Lestrange was You-Know-Who's sister-in-law."  
  
Penthesilea shook slightly with a silent, half-hysterical giggle, or maybe it was rather a shudder. "It sounds absurd - You-Know-Who having in-laws."  
  
Lupin gnawed at his bottom lip and nodded. "I know. They say he was human once, a mortal wizard, before he magically Transformed his body into something immortal by a spell nobody knows how to work or how to break. To me, this sounds scary enough. But what scares me most is the inhuman things that followed."  
  
"How do you define inhuman, Lupin?" Penthesilea replied. "Take a look around at the things that Muggles do to each other, and that wizards and witches do to each other, and then tell me that You-Know-Who's realm of terror is anything out of the ordinary. But maybe you are right, it is not You-Know-Who's monstrosity but the deeds of his followers that should scare us most."  
  
Not knowing what to reply to that, Lupin turned back to the subject of Dolores Lestrange. "Dumbledore entreated Fudge to draw off the Dementors and install a trustworthy, powerful guard here, or at least to have her removed from Azkaban. He even wanted to hide her in one of the secret dungeons below Hogwarts, but Fudge wasn't having any of it. Said she'd be a danger to the students. Which might be true, I admit - she's not the kind of thing anyone would want to have stashed away beneath the floorboards."  
  
"Dumbledore would be able to keep her safe," Penthesilea said softly, not looking at him. "In Azkaban she might be freed every minute. If that isn't a danger to the students, and to all of us, I'll eat my pointed hat."  
  
The bell of the fang-shaped clock tower of Azkaban tolled three o'clock. It was a sound that seemed to tell of the pointlessness of human existence, of pain and of impending doom, a sound that let even a Metallica tune die on your lips (or was it AC/DC?). Lupin knew that this effect had been the intention of those who built the infamous prison many centuries ago, but could not rationalise away his feelings of dread and fear.  
  
"Another two hours, and Stephan and Mundy will come to relieve us," Penthesilea murmured, pulling her cloak tightly around her. Lupin nodded assent. Each pair worked a twelve hour shift, taking a Portkey to a hidden cottage near John O'Groats on the mainland northern tip after their relief had shown up. With the eight participants of the secret guard service working in pairs, they had settled on a fifty-fifty routine - twelve hours shifts for a week, then a week off to get much-needed repose as well as a return to their daily lives. For Lupin, the rhythm frequently had to be broken, as he was not available for guard service every other week. They made allowance for him, not only because of his lycanthropy, but also because Sirius needed him at Hogwarts. Each time he didn't come down south, somebody else, usually the ever-present Mundungus, had to take his shift, as their group had not been able to recruit any more members yet. Taking somebody else's shift, the exhaustion, the cold, the depression and the danger - a horrible thought. It was a double bind situation all the way through - Lupin felt bad if he failed to come down for his shift, but felt just as bad if he took time off for it.  
  
Speaking of lycanthropy - Lupin sighed, remembering what he had forgotten, or maybe chosen to forget for a while. Resigned to the minor tricks fate played him, he took out his own flask, the one that did not contain tea or even anything remotely as pleasant. Penthesilea, by now accustomed to his habits, only cast him a fleeting glance when he poured himself a cup of his seething, acidic potion. Severus had brewed up a concoction for Lupin to take with him to Azkaban. Now all he had to do every night was add a teaspoon of powdered Erumpent horn and a drop of Glumbumble treacle, boil the potion for another twenty minutes and let it rest for two hours in his flask to get a fresh fully working anti-werewolf-insanity potion.  
  
Lupin was grateful for Severus' help as it granted him mobility in spite of his need for the potion, while not demanding too much of a potion maker's skill of him. While living in his isolated house in Wales, he had found the potion hard to come by; having Severus live nearby was a relief in some ways, Lupin grudgingly conceded. He forced the vile liquid down his throat, resisting the urge to rinse his mouth with water and tea which might dilute the potion and diminish its effect. Instead he contemplated the crescent moon as so often, thinking of Hogwarts, Sirius, the meagre progress they were making at Spellsearching, thinking of Roary's remark and Sirius' opinion of it. Groups. Icy Fingers as a means to attack groups, not individuals.  
  
In a few days he would have to return to the safety of Hogwarts for what Sirius in his affectionate tactlessness called Lupin's monthlies. Before his Transformation, Sirius and he would have a day and a half to build up their next experiment. Every attempt to properly simulate a group within the Atmoglisa Magica had failed so far, which meant they would have to try Icy Fingers on a real group. Most teachers of Hogwarts had volunteered for this experiment, but Lupin wasn't happy about it. If Roary was right, there had to be something specific about groups that could be attacked with magic, something that set off groups from individuals. So far they did not know what this special, magically attackable thing could be, which meant that if they tried Icy Fingers on a group, even in the protective space of the Atmoglisa Magica unforeseeable things might happen. In other words, with the right amount of carelessness and rotten luck, Sirius and he might accidentally wipe out most of the Hogwarts staff with their experiment. Admittedly, this was not likely to happen, but even the remotest chance was not one Lupin would willingly take.  
  
"You know, we need your research more badly than ever," Penthesilea suddenly said. For a second, Lupin feared she might be a mind-reader, but maybe it was the obvious thing to say to a Spellsearcher. She continued: "I don't know if you heard, but there's been an Icy Fingers Attack on a League meeting in New York, two people dead."  
  
Of course he heard, it wasn't as if he limited his news intake to the ever- biased Daily Prophet. "First Icy Fingers attack ever to be worked outside Britain," he replied. "Finally there's a proof that the American Death Eaters are not a mere sect of local loonies, but that there's a connection between the British and the American Death Eaters. They are trying to take over the world, just as certain people have always warned us."  
  
Penthesilea nodded. She routinely checked the observance balls again, then replied: "The League is striking back now. They destroyed a Death Eaters' meeting place in New Jersey and one in Normandy. Killed a few of their lot, I heard. Hope they take some action around here soon, too. All I ever hear about the British League is that some more of their members have been murdered."  
  
"Sounds more like a blood vendetta to me than a political struggle," Lupin said softly. "There's always innocent people in the middle that have to suffer."  
  
"So far all their hits were neat, no one else harmed." Penthesilea's mouth was firmly set now. "I've never heard of League members killing, say, Death Eaters' children or house elves or whatever. Now look at the Death Eaters. They kill whoever comes their way, political opponents, Muggles, children, witches and wizards who are stupid or cowardly enough to maintain a neutral position, you name it." She poured herself one final cup of tea, shaking the last drops out of her flask. "If they come down on us tonight, we will be the ones in the middle," she added softly.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
They had not, Lupin thought while riding back to Hogwarts on a shaky, junior sized school broom through heavy and enduring rain. Once more he had spent a week guarding Azkaban without getting killed. Whatever was keeping the Death Eaters from attacking the prison and freeing such prisoners as the Lestranges, it wasn't their humble little guard, he knew, but of course, the main thing was that something was keeping them away.  
  
Lupin's turquoise cloak was soaked; water dripped from his hair and from the sad-looking tail of his broomstick. After Portkeying down to their cottage headquarter, the broom was the only means of travel available for him - getting an extra Portkey for him to go home would have been beyond his financial means. Another hour and a half of his journey lay before him. He was craving a cup of tea, or maybe, he sighed, hot chocolate with marshmallows, perhaps a biscuit or two. Being a werewolf was a pain plain and simple, he thought morosely. On top of the painful Transformation, the loneliness, the poverty, the danger of biting someone which would result not only in a heap of guilt but probably in an Execution by Silver Bullet by the Regulation of Magical Creatures Department, on top of all of those came his inability to Apparate. Too dangerous, the Committee had told him when he had applied for training more than seventeen years ago. Being a werewolf, the molecules of his body where not wholly settled, they had told him, so if he tried to dissemble them in an Apparition process, nobody knew in which shape he would arrive at the place he intended to go. He might end up stuck in the shape of a wolf, or even an unbecoming mixture between wolf and wizard. So here he was, riding an undersized low-quality broom through unpleasant weather. The thought that as an Animagus, Sirius had not even applied to the Apparition test committee for the same reason was not really a comfort. Lupin shivered, swore under his breath and landed on the deserted grounds of an outdoor pool in Inverness, closed for the winter season. He climbed a fence, hid the short broomstick under his ludicrous cloak and made for a small, shabby café in a narrow side street. He wanted hot chocolate, and he would have hot chocolate, he had decided.  
  
The Muggle waitress gave him a funny look when she took his order. Lupin kept his soaked cloak closed, although he knew that without it, getting warm would have been less unattainable. The wide, turquoise cloak wasn't quite a coat after Muggle fashion, he knew, but in the eyes of Muggles, it would look less outrageous than the damp wizard robes he wore underneath. While waiting for his hot chocolate and chocolate fudge brownie, Lupin looked around in the dark, uninviting room. Nicotine had coloured the curtains a sick-looking yellow; there were grease-stains on the table- cloths and dead flies on the window sills, and even his modest mother would have thought the lamp-shades too ugly. The café, smelling of cold cigarette smoke and damp walls, was almost empty; only in a dark corner, two sorrowful elderly Muggle men were nursing early beers. The street outside looked just as dreary; only occasionally dust-coloured Muggles hurried through the rain like mindless ants. Azkaban, Lupin reminded himself. You've just spent a week in the proximity of Azkaban, so it's no bloody wonder you're depressed. When the waitress came with his much-needed chocolate infusion, he practically snatched it out of her hands, greedy for it in spite of the fact that marshmallows had not been available. He put a few Muggle coins in her hands, suddenly unwilling to stay longer than necessary. In his mind, he was already back on his broomstick, heading for Hogwarts.  
  
He arrived in the early evening, sneaking up the stairs to the deserted west wing. When he opened the door to his room, he smiled. Obviously Sirius had informed the house elves of his expected return, because there was a blazing fire in the grate and a plate of chocolate éclairs on the table. Sirius must have put his CDs in order, too, he thought, because the house elves probably would not have been able to correctly sort them into musical genres. Lupin changed into dry clothes, granting himself the treat of one of his good, new robes, and went next door into the chilly Spellie's Lab. When he entered, Sirius looked up from the notes on his desk and gave him one of his boyish grins. Taking in Lupin's state of mind in one gaze, he said: "There's no way you can come in here until you are properly warmed up and everything. Let's sit down in your room for a while and eat some of those éclairs." Lupin's heart took a jump, or would have if he had permitted it.  
  
Lupin did not like the term 'bisexual'; to him it sounded like only erotic relations to both sexes at the same time could bring fulfilment, which wasn't the case with him. Rather it was that he could not understand why most other people would consent to limit their desires to one sex only, to put the question of 'male' or 'female' over the things that really mattered: the subtle tilt of a head, the light in a pair of eyes, the warmth emanating from a special person's skin, even such abilities as saying just the right thing to a friend overwhelmed by mourning. To Lupin, categories such as 'gay', 'straight' or 'bi' seemed shallow and pale compared to the all-embracing question of loving or not loving someone.  
  
As a student, he had been hopelessly in love with Sirius, just as Sirius had been hopelessly in love with Lily. It was one of these things that just happened, Lupin thought, that gave life its painful and bitter sweetness. Sirius, he had decided decades ago, must never know what effect his striking blue eyes, his quick and sarcastic wit and his slightly husky voice had on his werewolf friend. Love was a thing with many dimensions to Lupin. It went far beyond such secular questions as sexual gratification or ownership. To lose Sirius, to destroy the ease the two friends had developed between them in the course of time, was an unbearable thought to Lupin. Many years ago he had sworn a holy wizard's oath, had made a deal with fate. If Fortuna would consent to work a miracle for him, if she brought back Sirius from Azkaban, free, sane and miraculously innocent, Lupin would never again dream of that other miracle: that Sirius would one day stop being straight as a wand and return Lupin's feelings beyond the bond of friendship. And then, one memorable night, Fortuna had done her side of the deal; Sirius was free, innocent, working with Lupin on a project they both believed in. So far, Lupin had kept to his side of the deal in return, even if he found it difficult at times.  
  
Sirius slumped down on the bed, while Lupin sat down in the squeaky armchair and helped himself to the plate on the desk. "So how's progress?" he asked. Sirius made a face and reached an for éclair instead of answering. Progress, Lupin inferred, could have been better.  
  
After chewing and swallowing, Sirius said: "Okay, Icy Fingers is about power, about Inherent Strength, as Professor Varlerta would put it, and the more you've got, the colder it gets. Okay, we know that's not all there is to it, so I've been reading up on magical group power. Well, it seems there is no such thing. I've found one tiny little reference dated 1752 that says a group is more than the sum of its parts, that there's something between people, just says it like it's common knowledge, and that's it. There's nothing more in the books. It takes us back to where we were weeks ago. Oh, and Dumbledore finally got us the crystal measurement balls we asked for, the ones that are supposed to make unidentifiable streams of magical power flow visible. I tried them out, and it seems they are working alright. That about sums up my week." He frowned, emitting a sigh of anger and frustration. "We can experiment with groups all we like, deep-freeze everyone in this castle if we are lucky, but we still don't know shnirking why." He slapped his hand onto Lupin's blanket.  
  
"Your source says there's something between people," Lupin mused, ignoring Sirius' offensive language. "If this something is the thing we are looking for, it must be something magically attackable, something that makes groups more vulnerable to the curse."  
  
"If Roary is right," Sirius added. "But what could it be that makes groups larger than the sum of their parts, that groups have and individuals don't?" he asked himself rather than Lupin, and certainly not for the first time.  
  
"Love and compassion," Lupin said in a sarcastic undertone. Sirius snorted into his éclair, accidentally blowing bits of cream and chocolate onto Lupin's blanket. He tried to wipe them up with his palm, but only managed to smear them further. Thanks goodness for house elf room service, Lupin thought.  
  
"But seriously, how are the safety measures coming along?" he asked his friend. Without thinking, he added, "no pun intended."  
  
Sirius raised his eyebrows and gave him one of his wry 'haven't-I-heard- that-all-my-life'-looks. "Our participants will be Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Quibster, Professor Vector, Professor Varlerta and of course our dear and honourable friend, the Git. Varlerta will be here with her guitar, ready to spontaneously conjure up a shield if necessary, while the Git will supervise our attack at Dumbledore's explicit wish. The other four will function as our lab rats within the Atmoglisa."  
  
Lupin felt a shiver run down his back. Lab rats. Lab rats occasionally died in scientific experiments. But at least there was one reason to feel relief. "So you could convince the old man to stay out of it."  
  
Sirius nodded, his face softened by his filial disposition to the headmaster of Hogwarts. "Don't think it was easy. He's stubborn by nature, and that's not supposed to be a fault that is softened by age. If he'd had things his way, he'd be right in the middle of it, with us taking notes on how much he is suffering."  
  
Lupin drew his feet up on the armchair and hugged his knees. "So really, all we do is put them into the Atmoglisa, curse them, try to measure the effect with the balls, see if Snape has any smart remark for us and hope nothing goes so terribly wrong that we can't fix it on the spot."  
  
"Basically, that's it," Sirius added, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "Before that, we have to try to fit the measurement balls into the Atmoglisa. I wanted to do that myself yesterday, but I realised that this job really takes two wands, because if the Atmoglisa collapses in the middle of the process, the crystal balls are likely to break and fall. We should get it done by tonight or tomorrow night at latest, so we can get going with the experiment after your monthlies."  
  
Lupin sighed. "That's right. Afterwards."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Madam Pomfrey had lately improved her Retransformation Ointment, much to Lupin's benefit. Turning back into a wizard after spending two or three nights as a potion-tamed wolf was not as painful as the Transformation induced by the first ray of the newly rounded full moon. Still, Retransformation always left him with sore muscles, tense skin and joints that felt like they had some grains of sand in them. After his first post- werewolf shower, Lupin thoroughly rubbed the sticky ointment onto the skin of his limbs and torso, knowing it would ease the pain soon. He felt he should be fit today of all days. He would have preferred to delay the experiment for another day or two, but Sirius was a notoriously impatient character. He hated to wait, burned for action, so action it was going to be today.  
  
After dressing in his frayed and patched robes, he went next door into the Spellie's Lab. Sirius was already there, checking the position of the crystal globes suspended in midair for one last time. When Lupin closed the door behind him, he looked up. "You alright?" he asked somewhat gruffly.  
  
Lupin took it as some kind of apology for an unnecessarily tight schedule. "Yes, everything is fine," he lied. "That's some pretty good ointment Madam Pomfrey has cooked up."  
  
Sirius gave him a critical look, but did not contradict. He fiddled with one of the balls and adjusted one of the spells that held it. Lupin waved his wand to make the construction in front of him visible. The Atmoglisa they had prepared and enhanced for the occasion was a remarkable piece of magic. Once awakened, it would shelter a power dimension of its own. It felt like nothing could go wrong, Lupin told himself. It felt like a dome of safety.  
  
After a while, the teachers of Hogwarts trickled in: Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape came first, wrapped up in a discussion that sounded rather controversial. Tiny Chent Flitwick and boring Cosinus Vector walked behind them, the first one's face bright with anticipation, the latter one's impassive and wooden. Nondescript Metheus Quibster seemed to avoid everybody's attention, while Varlerta (the professor without a first name - or was it without a last name?), at once gave Sirius and Lupin encouraging smiles and then eyed the Atmoglisa keenly. Behind her, Albus Dumbledore walked into the room.  
  
"Professor, if you please," Sirius said to him. "I apologise for insisting, but I must ask you to leave. I thought we'd agreed that this experiment is too dangerous for you to attend. We cannot start it as long as you are present."  
  
"We agreed that I would not be within the Atmoglisa," Dumbledore said gravely, gazing down on Sirius with his half-moon spectacles. "I feel that my place is here with you, to see the outcome of this experiment, and to step in at need."  
  
Lupin came to Sirius' aid. "Please, Albus, don't argue. Everybody at this school says that Icy Fingers has an exceptionally devastating effect on you, and you know better than I do that no Atmoglisa can ever be perfectly safe for those on the outside. I would feel much better if you left this room, better still, if you left the west wing."  
  
Dumbledore gave them a benign smile, though Lupin had the impression that underneath it he was hiding displeasure at his own vulnerability. "Severus will protect me in case of an emergency, and so will Varlerta. Please, Remus and Sirius, do not fuss."  
  
Snape stood by the headmaster's side, scowling at the two Spellsearchers. Lupin noticed that he meticulously avoided looking at Varlerta, who was setting up her amplifier and guitar. At the same time, she averted her eyes every time they strayed in Snape's direction. Lupin thought that between his own apprehensions, Sirius' impatience, Metheus' obvious discomfort and Dumbledore's sub-surface denial of his vulnerable state, the tension in the Spellsearchers' Lab was palpable. He felt his heart pump fear through his veins as he watched the four teachers take their places in the Atmoglisa, while the other two flanked the headmaster, Snape with his wand, Varlerta with her guitar. Everybody got their wands ready; Flitwick Summoned an additional jumper for himself and quickly put it on.  
  
"Ready?" Sirius asked. Nods from every direction. Ready - they could start. Sirius gave Lupin a look, and then as one man they pointed their wands at the Atmoglisa and shouted: "Glaciera!"  
  
Immediately Lupin knew that for whatever reason, Roary must be right. They had simulated the curse some forty or fifty times now within the Atmoglisa, but never had it hit with so much force. The inside of the magic simulation dome steamed up completely, then froze over from the inside in a matter of seconds. While Sirius and Lupin were rushing around the Atmoglisa to make notes on his observances in the measurement crystals, Dumbledore tapped his wand against the Atmoglisa to heat it up from the outside, thawing up a saucer-sized, unclouded window to the inside so he could see how the four teachers were coping in there. He gave Lupin a short nod to tell him that there was no emergency yet, that they could go on with the experiment.  
  
They had not anticipated that the transparency of the Atmoglisa would be obscured by the curse's increase of strength: As long as only one person had been the aim of their attack, Icy Fingers had never amounted to such an icy, destructible force. Lupin felt a remote joy at this discovery, because it meant a great step forwards in their spell research. However, he knew that the experiment was indeed becoming quite dangerous. Dumbledore gave him another nod, then blew on his chill-stiffened hands: There was no one hurt inside yet. Lupin nodded back, hoping Dumbledore would give the hand- signal through his small window in the thickly frozen surface of the Atmoglisa. They had agreed that Sirius would signal to them when to attempt Countering the curse, but presently, the teachers inside could not see Sirius at all, let alone any signal he might be making.  
  
Dumbledore caught on at once and signalled. Lupin braced himself against the wall, his wand ready, hoping without reason that the witch and wizards inside would succeed. The counter curse they had taught them was anything but perfect. It was really a generic and therefore weak counter curse, to a certain extent enhanced by such alterations as their present state of knowledge suggested.  
  
When he heard the counter curse take effect with an ear-splitting boom, for the first fraction of a second he hoped and believed in success. Then he saw the light of the Atmoglisa flare up, flutter and suddenly die. For a moment, the room fell into complete darkness, but not the darkness of peace and rest, but a darkness of terror. A severe storm filled with sharp ice splitters grazed his cheeks. He heard Sirius scream the closing word for the curse, the word the Death Eaters used when they considered their evil work finished. Nothing happened. They tried again simultaneously just as the first notes of Varlerta's guitar filled the air. Somewhere, a wand lighted up. Flitwick started singing, if Lupin heard correctly through the roar of the storm. A shield was building up, but it was not yet strong enough. Then Minerva McGonagall held up her wand high into the air, and Lupin could see that they had a problem indeed. The Atmoglisa Magica had blown up and collapsed completely, shattering at least one of the measurement crystals. The whole room was Arctically cold. Dumbledore lay on the floor in a motionless heap, icicles in his beard and in his eyebrows, ice crystals covering the skin of his face, Snape kneeling at his side. Professor McGonagall bent over the old headmaster, terror in her eyes. Lupin felt an elbow nudge in his side, and it was not a gentle one at all.  
  
"Help me stop this," Sirius cried out. Again they shouted the words that should have terminated the curse, but apparently the situation was out of their control. The curse did not die down, but flared up again and again in icy gusts. If the counter curse failed and their closing words did not work anymore either, how could they stop this experiment that had gone out of bounds?  
  
"Severus, tell us how to stop this," Lupin shouted as loudly as he could through lips that felt deadened with the cold. Snape reluctantly turned his gaze from the lifeless headmaster. In the uncertain light of the wands, his pale face looked like a mask of death. After a moment's hesitation, he rose and hurried to Lupin's side.  
  
"Glacifin," he screamed into Lupin's face. "Glacifin, you oafs!"  
  
"We tried it, and it didn't work!" Lupin knew that only those who had worked the curse could terminate it, so it was up to Sirius and him. Still he hoped that Snape would know what to do, because he had worked and closed the curse as a Death Eater out in the real world, unrestrained by any Atmoglisa magica simulation playground.  
  
"Try again, you morons," Snape shouted into his ear, blocking out the sound of the storm, the sound of Varlerta's guitar and Flitwick's feeble voice. He gripped Lupin's shoulder with one hand and Sirius' with the other. "Glacifin, you idiots, GLACIFIN!!!"  
  
The last word the three of them uttered in unison, Lupin's and Sirius' wands thrust forwards towards the frozen remains of the Atmoglisa Magica. Lupin felt the ground shake beneath him, once, twice, and then for a moment the room fell into complete silence. The storm died. Flitwick relighted the magical torches on the wall. Vector and Quibster, huddled in the middle of the room in a grey pile, raised their heads. Lupin felt so relieved that his stomach rebelled. Only with great effort, he could avoid throwing up out of sheer excitement, or was it fear? Whatever - for now the thing that mattered was that the curse was terminated.  
  
Without another word or look for them, Snape left their side and knelt back down beside the headmaster. He put a potion vial into Professor McGonagall's hands. Suddenly all eyes were on the three teachers down there on the floor. Nobody uttered a word until Minerva McGonagall whispered: "He's alive."  
  
Lupin felt himself breathe again. We should have put our foot down, he thought. We shouldn't have let him come here. It was far too dangerous. Whatever it is that gives the curse its strength, whatever power lives within people or between them and gives the curse its full blast only in an attack on a group - whatever it is, Dumbledore has an abundance of it. He is not too weak for this curse, but too strong for it, but that may prove to be fatal one day, he thought. A thought hit him like a fright: We must prevent him ever to be subjected to this curse again, because one day, the curse may very well kill Dumbledore, said Lupin's head with a conviction that reason could not block out.  
  
After Dumbledore had moved his icicle-covered eyebrows, showing everyone that he was still alive, Lupin and Sirius went to check on the measurement balls. Luckily, only one of them had broken after the explosion of the Atmoglisa. The others were secured by magic; they could still be read later. Maybe the experiment would prove to be helpful after all. It would better, Lupin thought - the way the first one had gone, it was not likely that they would start a second attempt. Whatever there was between groups that made the Icy Fingers curse the deadly weapon it was - they had to find out by the data that was in the balls now, and had to find a reasonably effective way of Countering it, before they could try another experiment, if they ever would. Lupin felt himself wishing very urgently that they wouldn't.  
  
Meanwhile, Snape and Professor McGonagall were helping Dumbledore out of the chilly room, or rather, half-carrying him into Lupin's private quarters which were much warmer. Quibster had run off to fetch Madam Pomfrey. Why didn't we have her standing in wait next door in the first place, Lupin told himself angrily. He caught Sirius' eye. His friend gave him a dark look.  
  
"I would have never forgiven myself," he said.  
  
Lupin nodded vigorously. "Me neither," he muttered. Both followed Vector and Varlerta into Lupin's room where Professor McGonagall and Snape had put Dumbledore onto Lupin's bed. The headmaster waved at them weakly when they entered.  
  
"Don't get upset, children," he whispered as they approached, his voice feeble, barely audible. "Everything is under control." 


	19. Harry

19 - Harry  
  
  
  
"Essence of Billywig stings is not in itself a potion, but an ingredient. In its undiluted form, its effects are rather nasty, as was confirmed by other mindless youths who could not keep their curious little fingers off the phial, so to say, which makes me hope beyond hope that you will prove to be smarter than them."  
  
Snape was obviously in the mood for lecturing, and recently he had developed a habit which Harry found nothing short of uncanny: He liked to lecture the class from behind. Standing near the door of the dungeon classroom - blocking the emergency escape, Ron had called it - Snape liked to relate to them the more unpleasant details of the potions they were making. While he was back there, none of the students could be sure whether or not he or she was presently under closest surveillance - Snape liked to interrupt his little sermons to point out the silly blunders students might have made while listening to him. Indeed, Harry had the impression that Snape might be right behind him, breathing down his neck, but turning around to check would only get him a sharp rebuff like: 'Why aren't you keeping your eyes on your potion, Potter? It's not really like you could afford to be inattentive. Even more inattentive than the state of mind dictated by your nature, I should say.'  
  
"As I am sure you will all remember, the effect of Billywig stings is ..." Snape strode to the front of the class, looking for a potential victim. Not surprisingly, Harry did remember, so his hand rose in the air along with Ron's, not to mention Hermione's. For a Gryffindor, it was the best way to make sure you were ignored in Snape's class, Harry thought when he saw Snape approach Lavender. Obviously, the girl was one of the few who was not interested in one of the main ingredients of Fizzing Whizzbees. She looked up at the teacher towering over her rather anxiously, then slowly and mournfully shook her head.  
  
"I don't know, Professor," she almost whispered.  
  
"The effect is not to increase intelligence, regrettable as it is," Snape sneered down on her. "Five points from Gryffindor for a fifth year student who does not even posses the meagrest amount of common sense." He turned to Millicent Bulstrode, who smugly replied:  
  
"The effect of Billywig stings is to make people float."  
  
Snape nodded encouragingly, as if the Slytherin girl had said something particularly smart. Harry angrily mortared his Billywig stings while the teacher continued his lecture:  
  
"For the next three lessons, we will prepare the ingredients for a Hawk Potion. The most important of them, Essence of Billywig stings, should be finished by next lesson if you do not mess up your preparations today. On Monday, you will learn how to properly shred Jobberknoll feathers and Fairy cocoons, and on Wednesday, you will try to produce Salamander blood concoction which gives Hawk Potion its strength and its ink black colour. Mind you, I do not say that you will succeed. In my opinion, Hawk Potion is a far too complicated potion to be brewed by fifth year students. However, it has been on the curriculum for fifth years for generations, so we will have to cover it, I'm afraid. Of course, former generations such as mine had little trouble with such tasks, but, alas, it seems impossible to uphold such standards with today's adolescents."  
  
"Today's adolescents!" Ron repeated indignantly but softly. "I'm sure he's never been a day younger than fifty!"  
  
"Mr. Weasley!" Snape strode towards Ron's and Harry's table. Obviously, he found nothing wrong with the Billywig stings in their mortars, probably much to his disappointment, but of course Snape had other things in store to get back at Ron. Snape pointed a bony finger at the red-headed boy.  
  
"What is Hawk Potion used for? Don't tell me you didn't do your reading assignment!"  
  
Harry saw Ron swallow, then do some very quick thinking. Yesterday's Quidditch practice had left neither of them time to do their homework properly.  
  
"Hawk Potion?" Ron repeated to gain time. "Er ... for flying. For flying and for ... er ... seeing well. And for a quick reaction time."  
  
"Mr. Weasley, if your education at this school had prompted you to develop more skills to the extent that you have developed your guessing routine, we might make something out of you yet." Snape gave Ron a look that suggested the teacher was suffering from a gastric ulcer. He turned to the rest of the class, ignoring Hermione's raised hand. "As Mr. Weasley has guessed correctly, Hawk Potion is a useful potion if it comes to, say, doing battle on broomsticks because it improves flying performance as well as reaction time. If used too frequently, it causes certain harmful side effects, such as nervous overexcitement. These side effects were the reason for the potion's ban from the Quidditch pitch in 1957. Of course," Snape turned his malicious black eyes on Harry for a second before letting them rest on Ron, "some of the less talented Quidditch players still like to resort to Hawk Potion, valuing fleeting stardom above their health, and, of course, above the law." Snape cast a reprimanding look at Ron and Harry, as if accusing them of owing their skills on the pitch to the abuse of forbidden substances, such skills as there were.  
  
Ron shrank into his seat. Harry was once more amazed at Snape's uncanny knowledge of how to hurt people, or maybe even of when to hurt people. Tomorrow morning they would be playing Ravenclaw. Watching Ron suffer from nerves was almost worse than suffering from them himself, Harry thought. He knew that Ron could by no means live up to the Keeper standards Oliver Wood had set, that Angelina had to use every bit of cunning and tact to improve Ron's skills without hurting his feelings too much - and he knew that Ron knew all this, too. Playing Slytherin and Hufflepuff had been a piece of cake this year, but Ravenclaw was another matter.  
  
For himself, he did not have much to fear. He had never felt so confident about his flying skills, and he knew that as long as he kept his mind on the Snitch tomorrow instead of on his opponent Seeker, only bad luck would keep victory from him. If he caught the Snitch quickly enough, Ron could not screw up too badly, he thought, but knew how humiliating it would be for Ron if everybody said that Gryffindor had won the match in spite of their Keeper.  
  
When Harry, Hermione and Ron walked down to take supper, spirits were down to an all-week low. To cheer Ron up by inviting him to lament a bit, Harry said: "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I've got the feeling Snape is worse than ever."  
  
"Maybe he's found out that he's suffering from a terminal disease," Ron said hopefully.  
  
"That's tactless," Hermione chided out of principle rather than with conviction. "Honestly, haven't you noticed?"  
  
"Noticed what?" Harry asked.  
  
"What is wrong with Snape," Hermione answered impatiently. "More wrong than usual, I mean." Both Ron and Harry shook their heads.  
  
"Boys," Hermione sighed as they took their seats in the half-empty great hall. "All eyes for broomsticks, no eyes for people." She raised both eyebrows and then said softly but with pathos: "Your dearest teacher is suffering from a broken heart."  
  
"Come on, Hermione, he doesn't have a heart," Ron retorted and pulled up a platter of sandwiches.  
  
"Don't you see," Hermione whispered in the tone of voice that Ron called her 'Witches' Weekly voice' behind her back. "He tried to chat up Professor Varlerta. A couple of months ago, they were all friendly with each other, sat together at meals and everything. Now look," Hermione inconspicuously pointed her goblet at the half-occupied High Table, "he's changed seats with Professor Sinistra, even though he always used to sit next to Dumbledore, because the two aren't talking anymore, haven't been for weeks, I think. My guess is that he made a pass at her and she refused him, and now his pride is hurt." Her eyes glowed with excitement.  
  
"Goodness, Hermione, you noticed all these things?" Ron looked abashed. Harry was amazed, too; he had never really taken an interest in any teacher's private life with the exception of Hagrid's, because Hagrid was his friend.  
  
"Boys," Hermione sighed.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After a game of Exploding Snap in which Ron had displayed a clumsiness that was quite out of character, Harry decided he needed to be alone for a while, so he sneaked out of Gryffindor Tower when no one was watching. Witnessing Ron suffering from nerves so badly was unbearable, maybe not in spite of, but because of the nerves Harry had experienced in earlier years: The Triwizard Tournament, not to mention the ordeal that had followed, had put Quidditch into perspective. Harry couldn't help himself; he found Ron's nervousness a bit childish, but he did not want his friend to know he felt that way. He knew that he had had three years as the Gryffindor Seeker and one year as school champion to get used to nervousness, while Ron hadn't. Reproaching Ron for his feelings would have been absolutely unfair, but there was only so much he could take, Harry thought as he walked along the dark corridors, pretending he didn't know where he was going. But of course, as if by accident, he ended up near the hallway that led to Professor Flitwick's classroom, where, in a window niche, Cho Chung had her secret hiding place.  
  
He went there every couple of nights. Some nights she was there, and some nights she wasn't. Sometimes she was crying, and sometimes she just sat there, staring out into the darkness. She always made room for him when he came, but they never talked. At first, Harry had been harrowing himself every time, trying to say something fitting, smart or comforting, but after he had given up, he felt more at ease sitting next to Cho on her window sill. Words were not needed here; it was all right just to sit in silence. If she did not want him to come, Harry reasoned, she could have found herself another niche. Neither had he ever asked her to make room for him, so he believed she did not mind him coming to see her.  
  
Would she mind tonight, the night before they would meet as opponents on the Quidditch pitch? Harry wondered as he turned into the dark hallway. Of course, she might not even be there; maybe she was sitting in Ravenclaw Hall, getting ready for the game, surrounded by her many friends. Suddenly Harry realised that there was someone talking down the hallway. He stopped dead to listen.  
  
"C'mon, Cho, you've got to pull yourself together! This is our one chance to win the Cup! If we beat Gryffindor, that is." Harry identified the eager and impatient voice as that of Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain. It seemed he had found Cho in her secret (or maybe not so secret) hiding place - Harry knew her voice at once when she replied wearily:  
  
"I know, Roger, I know. I promise I will do my best tomorrow."  
  
"Yes, but what is your best, I wonder? The best we got from you two years before, which was pretty good, or the best we got this year, which certainly wouldn't suffice against Gryffindor - which one will it be?"  
  
"Roger, I told you I'll give you my best. You know that I'm not the person I was two years ago, so it's no good promising to you I will be someone I'm not. You know I work hard, not only on the pitch, but also ... " her voice trailed off.  
  
"You've been telling us the same crap for months now, and I'm not buying it anymore, Cho. Okay, your Pretty Boy is dead, and you're off to cry your eyes out once more. You've got my sympathy, all of our sympathy. You got tons of sympathy from the whole school, actually. I respect your loss. But if you are not able to perform your duties as Seeker of a winning team, you should step down. Should have stepped down months ago so we could have trained someone else for tomorrow, for the match that really matters." Davies sounded bitter.  
  
"Are you kicking me out then?" Cho asked. Harry had expected that she would start crying, but if he heard right, she did not. She just sounded flat and hopeless. Suddenly Harry realised that he hated Roger Davies with wild ferocity; his fists clenched. For a moment, he wondered if he should walk up to them and challenge Davies to a wizards' duel, but of course that would have been silly, if not to say not good sports.  
  
"As I said, kicking you out tonight would do me a hell of a lot of good, Cho," Davies said sarcastically. "I'm blaming myself for believing you when you assured me you'd pull yourself together in no time at all. You didn't, not one bit. Today's practice was crap, Cho, it was really crap. You were crap. I can't believe you will permit yourself to be beaten by that stupid midget Potter again."  
  
Harry held his breath. Would Cho accept Davies' view of him?  
  
"Envious of his talent, Davies?" Cho said dryly.  
  
Davies snorted. "Of that little prat?"  
  
Cho sighed, then replied soberly: "Ok, Roger, you are the captain of my team. Within reasonable limit, I do what you tell me. When you criticise me, even unfairly, I accept it and try to improve myself according to your suggestions. But that doesn't mean I have to agree with everything you say."  
  
"As the captain of your team, I'm telling you, go to bed now and stop snivelling about what can't be changed anymore. I'm also telling you that you better catch the Snitch tomorrow, or I won't be captain of your team any longer. I hope I've made myself clear." Davies' voice sounded hard and angry.  
  
"I know you won't be captain of my team next year, Davies, because you're taking your NEWTs this year," Cho replied, but she sounded so hurt that Harry thought he felt the pain in his own heart.  
  
"That's not what I mean, babe," Davies said sarcastically. "I've talked to the others, and they agree with me. Either you catch the Snitch, or it will be the reserve bench for you next year, if anything at all. You don't need me to be there in person to kick you out - the next captain can do that just as well, and trust me, the next captain won't be you. I'm only telling you this for your own good so you don't get the wrong impression. And now hurry up to bed, child, so you'll be your usual cheerful self tomorrow." The last words did not sound any kinder than the ones that had preceded them. Harry heard a thump which probably meant that Cho had glided off the high window sill. Then he heard steps of two people walking off into the other direction. If Roger Davies ordered Cho to come, she came, it seemed.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The next morning dawned friendly and brightly. Finally, late March had brought a few definite proofs that the winter had passed, proofs such as tender green leaves or, as today, blue, sunlit skies. Harry greeted the special day by ceremonially shaving off the few stubbles that had started to show on his cheeks and chin. Angelina practically danced down to breakfast, infecting everyone with her good spirits. Unlike Oliver Wood, she must know a secret way to ban all thoughts of nervousness right before the game and to spread an optimistic mood, a quality that Harry appreciated very much in his team captain. Even Ron seemed to have slept soundly; considering the situation, he seemed to be coping well. Fred and George had decided more than two weeks ago that any bickering would not help their little brother to become a better keeper, and were actually rather supportive that morning, telling him he would uphold the family honour on the pitch. At breakfast, everyone was eating, another good sign. Harry was starting to look forward to the game.  
  
Before he knew it, he was slipping his scarlet Quidditch robe over his head, gripping his Firebolt, and was ready for the game. Fred, George and Ron, their flaming red hair clashing a bit with their Gryffindor scarlet robes, each clutched a Comet 97, 'sponsored by Drifter', as Ginny had said. The three Chasers knocked on the boys' changing room door to meet for a pep talk.  
  
"Alright, we worked hard, and we're going to make it work for us now," Angelina told them.  
  
"All I ever hear in this school is work, work, work," George commented, but nobody paid particular attention to him.  
  
"We're going to win this match, because we are the best team of the school," Angelina said, beaming. Harry believed her on the spot. Of course they would win - who else could? For the fraction of a second, Cho's face floated before his inner eye, but disappeared from his sight when Angelina clasped Ron around the shoulders.  
  
"You are going to do just fine," she told him.  
  
Ron turned beet red and did not reply. Harry guessed that he hated to be singled out at this particular moment. Fred did not seem to like it either, because he gave Ron a bit of a frown when Angelina hugged his little brother.  
  
They walked out onto the pitch, welcomed by loud cheering. From the other side approached the Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue Quidditch robes. Harry could recognise Cho from afar. She was the only girl on the team and by far the smallest of them. While she walked towards the middle of the field with her team, her straight, black hair fell into her face. As she approached, Harry thought she looked ill. Suddenly he did not feel so well himself, especially when he saw Davies, tall, good-looking and arrogant, say something to her. Cho nodded, looking quite unhappy. Just before the Ravenclaw team came so close that their conversation could have been overheard, they stopped. Davies turned his head to look Harry directly in the eyes. He sneered.  
  
"Davies, Johnson, shake hands!" Madam Hooch was in her best mood; her grey hair glistened in the sunshine. Angelina gave Davies one of her most confident 'I'm a good sport and an excellent player'-smiles and shook his hand with such vigour that Davies tried to withdraw it prematurely. On the blow of Madam Hooch's whistle, the teams shot in the air like two flocks of colourful birds. As always, the responsibility to comment the match lay with Lee Jordan.  
  
"And it's Lovegood in possession, passing the Quaffle in a neat long throw to - oops, that was a Bludger. So sorry, Lovegood, now it's Bell in possession. Neat backwards pass to Rhonda Celps, who has obviously caught up quickly with the highly successful Gryffindor team. And Celps approaches the scoring area, passes the Quaffle to Johnson, nice backwards swirl to avoid a Stooging foul. Johnson comes from below, thr- no, that was a fake - oops, here comes the Quaffle, past Ravenclaw Keeper Hengert, through the right loop - yes, she scores, Gryffindor scores!! Well done, girls, these practice moves seem to pay off.  
  
"And it's - now what? Oh, Davies is calling for time out because Lovegood claims he's been injured by that Bludger. Well, TOUGH LUCK, Lovegood - er, sorry, Professor McGonagall. Lovegood gets a potion from Madam Pomfrey, and - off we go again. And it's Peasegood in possession, passing to Staggon. All three Chasers are approaching the Gryffindor goal post now, oh, watch it Ron, whooaa! Yes, we get to see some Weasley action here. Each of the twins got a Bludger in front of their bats, beats me where they got them from that quickly, but that's the Weasley twins for you. And blam, blam, Staggon and Peasegood are thrown off course, well, too bad, boys. Lovegood aims the Quaffle at the middle hoop, but thank goodness we've got another Weasley, and yes, he saved it, he saved it!!"  
  
Harry watched the game from high above, keeping his eyes out for the Snitch. He was pleased to see Ron ward off the first attempt on the Gryffindor goal and grinned when he saw Professor McGonagall place a calming hand on the overenthusiastic Lee's shoulder. The Gryffindor Chasers were better than ever, he realised: They moved in a red swarm or forked out but were always aware of the location and intention of the others. Whenever there was a Quaffle to pass, there was someone waiting in the exact right spot to catch the pass. Somehow, Angelina's training methods had succeeded. Fred and George never seemed to need any training; they had probably worked as a team from the day they were born, and of course, Beater was the perfect position for each of them. If only Ron kept his nerve, everything would be fine!  
  
Cho circled over the pitch with what looked like laziness, but Harry, who had watched her flying style closely during her last two matches, knew that hers was the method of a bird of prey. Suddenly he wondered if maybe she could see better than him, if she would discover the Snitch before him. If only he wasn't near-sighted, he thought; glasses could only take you so far in correcting your eyesight. For a second, he longingly thought of Hawk Potion or of something else that would magically correct his eyesight.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slight twitch in Cho's flowing movement and knew instantly that she was going to dive. He turned the tip of his Firebolt towards the green lawn far below and dived alongside, even though he was sure she was faking. Well, if this was her version of a Wronsky Feint, she certainly wouldn't trick him into hitting the floor, that much was certain, he thought as he sped towards the ground, turning very slightly so that he would be blocking her when they approached whatever her aim was.  
  
As if from a great distance, Harry could hear the screams of the audience as they watched them dive. He had easily caught up with Cho; they were flying shoulder to shoulder. One look at her face told him that she looked very decided, and also, that she was not looking at him. By now, he was sure she was faking; the Snitch was nowhere in sight.  
  
When the ground came dangerously close she suddenly whirled around him, and off she went. Harry, who had turned too quickly, could only pull off just before he slammed into the lawn below. The crowd was on their feet, screaming with excitement, before they realised that all they had seen was a half-successful feint. At least we are providing some entertainment today, Harry thought grimly as he tore after Cho.  
  
"And it's thirty-forty for Gryffindor, Celps in possession. And here comes Davies - uh oh - looks like he's going to Blatch her. Ouch, looks like that hurt. Looked like a foul to me, but who am I to argue? So, of course, it's Staggon in possession now. There come the Weasley twins, Terry Boot approaching from the other side. What are you doing there, boys, having a bit of a private Beater brawl? These bats are for hitting Bludgers, not Beaters, boys - uh oh - anyway, in the meantime Staggon is approaching the Gryffindor goal and - Yes, that was another rather neat save from Ronald Weasley, the youngest player of a family that has no peer in the history of the last few decades of Gryffindor Quidditch teams!"  
  
Just when Harry cast a look over the pitch down at youngest player of a family that had no peer et cetera, he saw the Snitch hover over Ron's head. He nudged the Firebolt into the fastest speed it could manage. Lee Jordan's excited comments about "the fastest acceleration this pitch has seen this year" whirled by his ears as he gave all he could: From the other side of the pitch, Cho Chang came flying, and if he did not manage to outfly her, she would block him. Harry flattened himself towards the handle of his broomstick. The Snitch was in the mood for a race as well, it seemed; just as Harry came close enough to see its fluttering wings, it zoomed away in a sharp curve. Harry followed, the curve bringing him in line with the twig ends of Cho's broom. Catching up might be difficult - Harry knew Cho flew well, and she did not seem willing to give up now. Although her Comet 90 might not be the world's fastest broomstick, she certainly used it as if it was a part of her body, not just a tool.  
  
Again, the snitch changed direction. Cho turned her broom abruptly to adjust, causing Harry to slam into her. As both were well used to such incidents, neither needed much time for recovery. Harry realised he now had a tiny advantage over Cho, and he was going to use it. The clash must have affected her more than him; he was gaining on her inch by inch - he was level with her - the tip of his broomstick was ahead of hers - he was on his way to the Snitch.  
  
The small golden ball was not willing to let anyone catch it - it changed height and direction again and again, but Harry knew he as good as had it. His fingertips touching the metal of the ball, the fluttering wings beating against his palm were familiar sensations. Just as he was closing his fist around the Snitch, he saw Cho catch up with him, her eyes burning. Then something strange happened to his hand. It was as if a tiny beak like that of the little bird the Snitch was modelled after picked at his hand. Just between his forefinger and his middle finger, something sharp tried to force its way through. Before he could properly close his fist the Snitch fluttered, flustered and then slipped out of his half-closed hand and flew right into Cho's outstretched palm.  
  
The next few moments blurred in his mind. He couldn't believe what had just happened - he had caught the Snitch, had held it in his hand and then released it like a stupid beginner! Cho held up the Snitch in a gesture of triumph, but her face was pale and expressionless. She seemed to look right through him. And while her team mates came flying towards her to embrace and celebrate her, while Lee Jordan was swearing so badly that Professor McGonagall had to wrench the magic megaphone from him, while the Gryffindor Quidditch team came over to stare at Harry incomprehensively, Harry just shook his head in disbelief. It had to be a dream, he had to wake up any minute now. But it wasn't a dream, it was just that something happened which Harry had never expected: He had made an immensely stupid blunder in an important Quidditch match, a blunder which had cost his house the Quidditch Cup.  
  
The teams descended to the ground. Over the crowd, Harry could see a number of blue Quidditch scarves hover, magically suspended by their overjoyed owners. "Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw!" people shouted. The Ravenclaw team flew a round of honour around the stadium while Professor Dumbledore walked onto the pitch, holding the shiny Quidditch cup.  
  
Harry looked away from the celebrating Ravenclaws. When his feet touched the ground, he could see his team mates land around him. They did not look like they found any of it funny. If he only could have Disapparated on the spot! Nobody said a word. Eyes downcast, the Gryffindor team walked back to the changing rooms. On their way, they passed Hagrid, Hermione and Ginny, who waved kindly but, of course, not overly enthusiastically. At Hermione's feet, Harry could see a huge, black dog. He quickly looked away, feeling as if someone had poured lead into his intestines. If anything had been missing to make him feel like dying of shame, it had to be Sirius' watching his defeat. Somehow, this was worse than anything else, worse even than the discussion that would follow in the changing rooms.  
  
"Harry, are you out of your mind?" George yelled as soon as the door of the changing rooms had closed behind them.  
  
"What in Merlin's name happened?" Katie Bell shrieked. "You had that Snitch, and then you lost it, right? How can you release a Snitch that you are holding in your hand?"  
  
"Damn it, Harry, you lost us that stupid Cup," Fred said and placed his broad-shouldered frame right in front of him. He looked very angry. Ron stood right behind him, apparently lost for words.  
  
"Hey, leave it for now, people!" That was Angelina's voice, and it was louder than everybody else's. She put a hand on Fred's shoulders and turned him around, then placed herself in the middle of the small group, hands on her hips. "Alright, we are all very upset and disappointed right now. So am I, and so is Harry, I believe. But let's pull ourselves together, let's change, take a shower and talk things over like civilised people up in the Common Room later. Yelling at people doesn't change a thing, and besides, upset or not, we are supposed to be a team, so let's behave like one."  
  
For a moment, nobody said a word. Angelina glowered at Fred, who looked down at the floor. Abruptly, Katie Bell and Rhonda Celps turned on their heels and headed off to the girls' changing room. Angelina gave each of the boys another hard, 'I am the boss'-look, then strode out after them.  
  
Harry and the three Weasleys showered and changed in an odd, menacing silence. They will all hate me now, a voice in Harry's head said. Miserable as he was, Harry was unwilling to believe that voice. Ron would not hate him, right? But then he looked over to Ron who was just tying his shoelaces, Ron looked away.  
  
Harry dawdled with his clothes and with his shoes until the three Weasleys had left the changing room. When he was alone, he sat down on the wooden bench that ran along the walls, leant back and closed his eyes for a minute. Still he wished to Disapparate, to disappear from the face of the earth, but he knew there was no chance for that. Slowly he packed his things, lingering even now to make sure he could walk up to the castle alone.  
  
She was waiting for him outside, and to his shock Harry saw that she looked angry - angrier even than his team mates. Her eyes glowered at him.  
  
"What the heck do you think you were doing out there?" she hissed at him. "Do you think you were helping me with your generous gesture? Worthless old Cho, can't even catch the Snitch for herself, that's what they'll say, that's what you must think, too. Thank you very much indeed!"  
  
He was confused, and once more, words were hard to find. "It was a mistake," he finally said. "I wasn't helping you, I just didn't get a proper grip on the Snitch."  
  
"Yeah, right. The famous Harry Potter can't hold on to a Snitch, that's the first I've heard of that!" She still looked angry, but Harry saw there were tears in her eyes.  
  
"I can't help being famous, or stupid, for that matter," he replied stubbornly. "Go and celebrate, and leave me alone."  
  
She had turned away, and he realised she was crying. Before that day, he had never touched her or talked to her when she cried, but now he went to her, put his arms around her and pulled her close. She put her head on his shoulder and sobbed quietly. "I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered through her tears. Then she dug into her pocket for a clean handkerchief and wiped her face. Harry did not take his arms away. When she looked at him, her face faintly flushed from crying, he closed his eyes and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm, and she did not protest. Harry could smell shampoo and herb-scented broom polish oil on her hair and skin; her breath tingled on his face. His heart seemed to throb in his ears and in the tip of his nose which once or twice touched hers. Heat flooded his body. Finally, he felt her draw away, so he opened his eyes again.  
  
"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm not sure if I'm ready for this..." She looked down his robe, and he could see her eyes brim with tears again. "I'm confused, and I don't know what I want, or who I am, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like the world isn't even real and I don't exist at all."  
  
Taken aback by this disquieting revelation, Harry slowly released her from his embrace. "It's okay, Cho," he said awkwardly. "I understand." The moment he said it, he knew that both of his statements were untrue.  
  
Cho wiped her eyes ferociously, looking rather small and lost. "I suppose we better get to the castle," she said in a slightly choked voice. Harry nodded. Both took up their bags and walked up the path in silence. They crossed the Entrance Hall and went up a flight of steps until Harry had to go one way and Cho another.  
  
"I'm sorry about your blunder, you know," Cho said softly. "I think bad luck is all it was. You were there first, and you should have won. I shouldn't have caught the Snitch in the first place, but I reacted without thinking."  
  
Harry did not know what to answer - yes, he had been there first, but had the Snitch taken another course during its flight, he knew, she might just as well have gotten to it first. So he only shook his head mutely.  
  
"Goodnight then, Harry," Cho said and turned to leave.  
  
"Goodnight, Cho," Harry replied, but just before she disappeared into the hallway, he called her back.  
  
"Cho?"  
  
"Yes?" She turned.  
  
"If you think...er...if you ever think you are ready, could you maybe - well, let me know?"  
  
She smiled, and it was as if a cloud had blown away from his heart. "Yes, I will," she replied before she headed off to the Cup Celebrations which were likely to be held for her right now in Ravenclaw Hall.  
  
The closer Harry got to Gryffindor Tower, the less he wanted to enter it. He was sure he had never felt as confused before. In his head there seemed to be a number of Harrys, and they all shouted something different. One of them was overjoyed, singing: 'I kissed her, I kissed her!' Another one wanted to crawl into his four-poster, if not into a tightly sealed box, and, well, cry, because obviously Cho did not want his love. Harry number three wished to mount his broom and fly away, never to return to the Gryffindor Common room where he would now be held in contempt. A fourth Harry felt like running up a few flights of steps, like hitting a few things with a Beater's bat and like screaming at the top of his voice, preferably at the complete idiot who had let go of a Snitch that was already in his hand. Finally, when his heavy feet had drawn him up to the Fat Lady, he managed to come up with a fifth Harry, a stubborn one. Okay, he had made a very foolish mistake. It could not be changed anymore, but running away would not help either; it would only look cowardly. He straightened his posture and braced himself for the ordeal to come. "Diricawl," he said to the Fat Lady.  
  
"Good luck, my boy," she replied in a rather unconvincing tone when she opened up for him. Harry felt his heart sink. Even the Portrait knew what had happened.  
  
When he entered the Common Room, all conversation stopped abruptly. Every Gryffindor in the room turned to look at him. Quills were dropped, pages were bookmarked, and Exploding Snap cards were put aside. In a dark corner, his team was sprawled on six squashy armchairs, the girl front along one wall, the Weasley front along the other. Ginny, Hermione and Neville sat on padded stools by the fireplace, each with a pile of books on their lap. Seamus, Dean, Parvati and Lavender leant against the wall and did not even try to stare anything but openly.  
  
Harry looked at his Quidditch team in apprehension. He knew he should walk over to them and apologize for his blunder. He should give them the chance to let their anger fly at him. But when he looked at George's and Fred's unforgiving stares, when he saw Angelina, Katie and Rhonda whisper among themselves, when Ron beckoned to him as if he had the right to order him around, Harry felt stubbornness take hold of him. Ignoring them he made for the door of the boys' dormitories. He wanted to be alone, and even though he was guilty of making a stupid mistake on the Quidditch pitch, he felt he still had a right to be alone when he felt like it.  
  
"Hey, Harry!" The voice that called him back from the dormitories' door was Hermione's. He turned around and saw that she had pulled up a stool for him next to hers. "You are not going back to sleep, are you?"  
  
Everyone in the Common Room laughed at him. He wanted to shout an angry reply back at Hermione, but then he saw that she was blushing. 'I didn't mean it that way,' she mouthed at him apologetically. Again, Harry felt that all eyes were on him. He walked back to the fireplace and sat down on the stool that was waiting for him there.  
  
As if by pre-arrangement, Ginny and Neville turned their attention back to their schoolbooks. Hermione smiled and waited until a general murmur had filled the Common Room. The Gryffindor students were talking among themselves again, probably talking about Harry, but at least they were not staring at him any longer. "You're not getting all worked up over a game, are you?" Hermione asked him softly.  
  
"If I wasn't, I'd be the only one in this room," Harry said darkly.  
  
"Oh, never mind them!" Hermione turned her eyes heavenwards, then waved her hand as if she could wipe away the whole Common Room full of Quidditch- crazy Gryffindors. "They are silly and childish. Sports are not about winning, they are about Sports, about fitness, fairness and fun, as the Muggles say. In my opinion, getting angry if someone of your team makes a little mistake is about neither of the three, but plain out stupid."  
  
Harry shook his head at her strange point of view. "My little mistake cost us the Cup. This must be the worst blunder of my life." He hugged his legs and buried his nose between his knees when he felt the shame well up in him again.  
  
Hermione made a face at him and impatiently tapped her quill on her books. "Worst blunder of your life, indeed! If so, you should think yourself very lucky."  
  
"I hate mistakes. I really do." Harry sighed. "So does my team, I suppose. They will never forgive me. I should go over to them right now and resign my post as Seeker." He put his feet back on the ground and tried to rise from his stool, but Hermione pulled him back down.  
  
"Think before you act, silly," she said in a very patronising voice. "Is Ron going to hate you? Fred and George? What about Angelina?"  
  
Harry carefully turned his head just far enough so he could see his team from the corner of his eyes. They did not look very forgiving; in fact, he had the impression they looked sulky. When Ron's gaze caught his, Harry hurried to turn his head back to Hermione.  
  
"Come on, let's go and see Snuffles," Hermione suggested quietly to make sure that nobody except Harry and perhaps the order members Ginny and Neville would hear her.  
  
Harry shook his head vigorously and almost shouted: "No way, I'm not going there!" He wondered what Sirius was thinking about him now. Since Sirius had told him that he flew as good as his father, Harry had tried to live up to that expectation. Today he had proven right before his godfather's eyes that he was rubbish at Quidditch, that he couldn't be entrusted with the responsibilities of a Seeker. "I don't think I could face him now," he explained a lot more softly.  
  
"Oh, Harry! Do you really think people only like you if you don't make any mistakes?" Hermione seemed positively upset. Harry shrugged.  
  
"He might be quite offended if you didn't go to see him, if not to say hurt. Do you think he will say: 'Harry, you're not my godson anymore because you are not the world's best flyer, because you're not perfect?' I mean, think about Sirius for a moment." Hermione lowered her voice until it was barely audible, and she kept her eyes on the floor. "Sirius once made a mistake, too, a mistake that was much worse than anything anybody could ever do on a Quidditch pitch. Where would he be if people hadn't forgiven him for that - Dumbledore, Lupin, and you most of all?"  
  
For a moment, the world seemed to swim before Harry's eyes. Then he smiled at her, very grateful for her words. Trust Hermione to put everything into perspective! It wasn't really that he really had to be reminded that there were things in life much more important than Quidditch - it was just that between team spirit, Cho Chang's black eyes and the treacherously slippery Snitch, he had forgotten for a while. And even though, paradoxically, Hermione had reminded him that the world could be a terrible and dangerous place, Harry felt as if she had lifted the weight from his mind rather than adding to it: The evilness of the world was something he thought he could handle much better than disappointing people he cared about. For a fleeting second, he thought of Cedric, but banned him from his thoughts, because there was only so much he could take in a single day.  
  
Hermione must have realised that she had made him feel better. She smiled back at him in a self-assured way and shifted in her seat, dislocating her rather high pile of books so that half of it toppled over. Suddenly Harry saw what Hermione was keeping hidden under her books.  
  
"Hey, that's my parents' old log! What are you doing with it?"  
  
Hermione blushed. She pulled the Spellsearchers' log out from beneath her Arythmancy book and leafed through the pages for a moment. Then she handed it back to Harry.  
  
"I asked Ron to get it out of the boys' dormitory for me," she explained. "Please forgive me for not asking you instead if I could have it. See ... there was something I wanted to check, but I did not want to attract too much attention, because I wasn't quite sure. Now I am. I'm sorry for taking it without your permission."  
  
Harry tried to make sense of her words. "What are you sure about?" he asked.  
  
"Well..." Hermione avoided his eyes. "See, Harry, I suppose I have to tell you something about your mother - something you won't like to hear."  
  
His mother? Harry's stomach had just approached the point of settling back to the place it belonged. Now it took another sudden plunge downwards. "Tell me about my mother, then," he said, feeling apprehensive.  
  
"Well, er, to tell you the truth.."  
  
"Hermione, will you please speak up?" He was getting quite impatient.  
  
"Okay, Harry. Your mother was...not quite as brilliant in Arithmancy as everybody believed. The Spellsearchers' log is full of her mistakes."  
  
Harry wasn't quite sure where this was going. He had expected to hear something more dramatic. "So?" he asked.  
  
"So, the counter curses your parents and Sirius tried just couldn't work," Hermione explained. "From an Arithmantic point of view, their curses and counter curses were completely mismatched in power and direction. The mistakes your mother made in the very beginning of their research phase were never checked by anybody, so they permeated every basic assumption of the project. I'm really sorry about it, Harry."  
  
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "That's nothing to be sorry about," he said. "As a matter of fact, it sounds great! If you found these mistakes, it means we can fix them - at least, you may be able to. This may be the crucial breakthrough that Sirius and Lupin are looking for! Why should I mind that?"  
  
"You just said you hated mistakes," Hermione said slowly. "I didn't want to tell you something about your mother that would make you think worse of her."  
  
"But everybody makes mistakes! I'm sure she did her best, and meant well and...." The words died on his lips. He had meant well, too, and done his best - and had made a mistake.  
  
"Are you still sure you don't want to go and see Sirius?" Hermione asked him with a faint smile on her lips. "We could give him this, you know." She pointed at the Spellsearchers' log. "And I really think he will be offended if you don't go and see him."  
  
Harry shrugged. "I suppose you're right. Let's go." Without heeding the angry looks from their fellow Gryffindors any longer, Harry and Hermione got up and left the Common Room. Just as they wanted to close the Portrait behind them, another arm and leg followed them out of the Portrait Hole. It was Ron. He gave Harry a wide, cheeky grin.  
  
"So are you going to exclude me from your friendship from now on because I am a lousy Keeper, or rather because you are a lousy Seeker?"  
  
Harry laughed. Up to now he hadn't seen things this way. "I thought you did rather well today," he said truthfully. "I'm really sorry I ruined that for you."  
  
Ron replied with a shrug the kind of grunt that could be interpreted either as a yes or a no. "Gee, thanks. You know, actually you made me feel a lot better about myself with your little stunt."  
  
Hermione giggled. "You two must be the craziest Quidditch players of the whole school," she said. Then Harry, Ron and Hermione made their way down to the Spellsearchers' Lab. 


	20. Neville

20 - Neville  
  
  
  
The Voodoo Basil was enjoying his touch and his soft humming, there was no doubt about it. Neville pried a branch of the purplish leaves from his left hand and gently tugged at the foot-high plant. Apparently the Voodoo Basil trusted him: It relaxed its delicate roots to make re-potting easier. Neville put some moist, black dirt into the new pot, relocated the plant and added more dirt until the plant was comfortable in its new home, all the while humming a tune the Basil liked.  
  
Neville always hummed in the greenhouse. He had been sure since his first year at Hogwarts that his preference for Herbology was a reciprocal thing, that the plants liked him in return. Only last month he had found the courage to approach Professor Sprout and timidly ask her whether she thought the plants liked him because he hummed to them. She had given him one of her broad, good-natured smiles. "Didn't you know? Of course they like it - they practically wrap themselves around your finger if you hum to them. I thought you had noticed." Neville had shook his head because he had never been quite sure about it. After all, not all plants were as clingy as purple Voodoo Basil, he thought when he gave the enamoured plant one last tug as goodbye before turning to the next one.  
  
Neville was in his best spirits. Today was not only the day, but it had also been a good day so far, and even better things were to come. Transfiguration had been tolerable today, as had Care of Magical Creatures. Even though he still felt apprehension towards the six weeks old Kneazle kittens their class was currently caring for, he had dared for the first time to hold one in his lap and feed it its milk today. The small, disproportioned creature had growled and scratched his hand slightly, but had finally drunk contentedly, a small success which had earned Neville some friendly praise from Hagrid. Herbology was enjoyable as always, he thought while he gently trimmed the Voodoo Basil's excess branches, humming so the plants could better tolerate the pain. Neville was sure that plants knew pain just as humans and animals - the only difference was that most plants could not protest. Carefully he pulled off the wilted leaves, then reassured the Basil that the discomforting treatment was over.  
  
Later in the afternoon, he would have Defence Against the Dark Arts, and that was another class he had come to enjoy. After learning many things about Strengthening and Shielding during the last few months, Professor Varlerta had finally come back to using audio magic in her class. She was making them practice in pairs now in accordance to their wand cores. Neville enjoyed practicing with Lavender, not the least because it felt good to be looked up to for once: Audio magic had become a thing he felt relatively comfortable with, and he could actually teach Lavender tricks. He felt decidedly less stupid than he used to in all his time at Hogwarts, and that was certainly an improvement in his life.  
  
Before Defence Against the Dark Arts, right after lunch, the Gryffindors had Double Potions with the Slytherins. Neville secretly grinned to himself. It felt so good not to have to go there! Usually that was his audio magic apprentice time, but today, Professor Varlerta had told him and Ginny, they should take the time off, should spend it sleeping or enjoying themselves, because their meeting would be postponed to the evening. Neville thought of it with excitement: Today was the day they had all been waiting for, Thursday, April the fourth, the day of the lunar eclipse. It was all Professor Varlerta seemed to be talking of these past two weeks. After consulting Professor Sinistra as well as various notes, she had come to the conclusion that the effect of the lunar eclipse at the stone circle would be truly astonishing. She believed it would enable her and her two apprentices to absorb an amount of magical power which so far was unparalleled. Just yesterday, she had bragged: "We will be magic giants for a few days, kids!" To Neville's ears, this sounded just like the sweetest music.  
  
The Herbology lesson was nearing its end. Professor Sprout gave his re- potted Voodoo Basil plants an appreciating nod. "I wish I had thought of getting you for my personal apprentice before Varlerta snatched you away, Neville," she said kindly. Neville felt himself blush to his ears. Maybe he wasn't as useless as everybody had always believed, he thought as he went into the Great Hall to get his lunch.  
  
At the Gryffindor table, a few seats away from him, Ginny sat with a few fourth year friends. She did not look up when Neville sat down and appeared to be listening to a conversation between her year-mates Rhonda Celps and Cassandra Clearwater. Still she seemed to be radiating with anticipation just like him, Neville thought: Ginny's face was faintly flushed, and she was indifferently shovelling down food as if she didn't notice what she was eating.  
  
"Hi Ginny," Neville said. "Today is the day!"  
  
Ginny looked his way very briefly and nodded in affirmation to his rather trivial statement. "Hi," she said before turning her attention back to Rhonda. Neville shrugged. She might ignore him in public most of the time, but he knew the two of them shared an experience that no other student at Hogwarts had part in. Tonight when they would take off their shoes to feel the warm, vibrating ground of the moonlit stone circle, she would be his best friend again.  
  
After lunch break, Neville went into his empty dormitory. The enormity of his privilege made him almost giddy. Having two hours all to himself instead of suffering torture in Snape's classroom was nothing but grand. Knowing that a bit of self-discipline would even enhance his pleasure, he spent his first precious ten minutes cleaning Trevor's flat sleeping bowl and oiling the warts on his skin. His beloved toad glanced up at him with his wise, grateful eyes. "I'm sure you know everything there is to know in the world, Trevor," Neville lovingly told the amphibian. Here was another privilege: Being all alone in the dormitory meant he could actually talk to his toad without anybody listening. The other Gryffindors had made it quite clear to him when he was a frightened ickle firstie: Only dunderheads talked to their toads. Neville had complied, but now that he was on his own, he could for once do as he pleased.  
  
Alone ... The whole day was nothing but a series of treats lined up like pearls on his grandmother's necklace. Having Gryffindor Tower to himself meant he could practice his flute without being overheard by anyone. Neville avoided practicing up here if he could, because he lacked confidence in his ability to make his playing enjoyable to anyone else but him. Now he didn't have to worry about annoying others, so he took the flute out of its profane plastic case. Like on most occasions, touching it to his lips meant happiness.  
  
Neville played a few tunes from his memory. Two of them were from the "Teach Yourself to Play Flute"-book Varlerta had bought for him. Neville could decipher sheet music with some effort; once he knew a tune, he memorised it rather than staring at a piece of paper each time he played it. Most tunes in the book were simple and unattractive, because it was the beginner's volume, but these two Neville rather liked. Then he went on to play some of the magical Strengthening and Coaxing tunes Professor Varlerta had taught him. To the delight of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, he had found a little three-note trill that would make the pages of a book turn.  
  
"Would really come in handy if you were playing several pages of sheet music," she had commented. "Sometimes it's impossible to turn the page without growing an extra hand. What a pity that these classic dudes are always such staff-obsessed nitpicks! Play a concerto and turn the page with a trill, and they will gripe about the trill not being in the notes. That's the attitude that put me off sheet music, as a matter of fact."  
  
Neville had decided he did not need sheet music, either. From the magical tunes he found a seamless transition to the tunes in his head. He didn't find it easy yet to translate a note he heard with his inner ear into a movements of his fingers, but he knew he would get there some day. For now, making one of his tunes audible on the flute was a painstaking process, but at least he knew the tune by heart afterwards. To go from one piece to another was not quite as difficult; his fingers had gotten so accustomed to certain musical phrases that they seemed to play them by themselves. Sometimes Neville wasn't sure himself whether he was playing a fixed tune, improvising or practicing magic. Professor Varlerta had told him not to worry about that. To him, music and magic were almost the same thing, and he felt it unnecessary to make a clear distinction. Let the others think him mad - to him each spell had to sing before it could work, and if he played or hummed, he felt his magical power rise in him.  
  
Neville knew that Ginny felt differently about these things: She wanted to be a good drummer on one hand and a good audio witch on the other, and while there was a grey area between the two skills, she certainly could tell them apart. Again, Varlerta had told him not to mind that; they were two different people, so where was the problem if music and magic functioned differently for both of them? Something she did worry about, however, was Neville's flute technique: Twice she had driven him to a Muggle flute teacher in a nearby town, because she said she didn't know much about playing the flute herself. If Neville was purely self-taught, Varlerta had said, he might get accustomed to some technical mistakes which he would have to unlearn if they were not corrected in time. True, the brittle old Muggle woman had found a number of things wrong with Neville's playing. Though he tried to heed her advice to a certain extent, he wasn't too sad when Professor Varlerta had told him that she did not have the time to drive him there on a regular basis. Instead, she had made his grandmother promise that Neville would take lessons over the summer. Neville had slight misgivings about that, but had agreed to give it a try.  
  
After playing for a long, long time, Neville put the flute away and stretched his shoulders. The asymmetrical position of a flute player made him tense if he forgot to move around a bit every now and then. Tonight he must not be tense: Tonight he would play at the stone circle, he would dance with the silvery spirits of the circle and feel the warm earth beneath his naked feet, and he was determined to give his best in return. It wasn't any old full moon, he reminded himself, not even any total lunar eclipse, he reminded himself, but it was also the full moon between equinox and Easter, in Varlerta's opinion a night like no other. Neville took care to pack his bag for the night. He would need his flute, an extra jumper and extra socks; he also packed the battered old recorder, even though he hardly played it anymore. Neville checked the bag again. Tonight nothing must go wrong, and if he didn't manage to misplace his wand between then and now, they wouldn't have to go back to the castle because of them tonight, he thought grimly.  
  
Defence Against the Dark Arts started with a meditation session. Professor Varlerta insisted that it was good for Strengthening, and even though Neville wasn't sure of its beneficial effect, he just liked to sit there in peace for a while, listening to himself and others breathe very calmly. Then Varlerta asked the Gryffindors to make their wands float by humming, something Neville found quite easy by now. He knew he wasn't supposed to concentrate on anyone's wand but his, yet at times he couldn't help stealing a glance around. Ron's wand floated neatly; so did Parvati's and Dean's. Seamus was having a few troubles, and so was, to everyone's surprise, Hermione. Their wands shook in mid-air or even dropped to floor now and then. Lavender and Harry seemed to be hopeless cases. Their wands wouldn't move from the floor at all. Varlerta kept telling everybody to keep their minds on their own wands and to give themselves time to learn the trick in their own time. Still, Neville had the impression that being worse than him at anything at all wasn't very motivating to any of his class mates. Sometimes he made his wand quiver and shake a bit just to make Lavender feel better, because when he looked at the girl sitting opposite of him, he could see that she was not having the best of times.  
  
Because Lavender's wand contained the heartstring of a dragon just like his, Professor Varlerta had assigned her to him as practice partner. Ron worked with Parvati, Seamus with Dean and Harry with Hermione - the two 'Phoenixes', as Varlerta referred to them. As the teacher had told them last fall, the four students whose wands contained unicorn hair cores found Coaxing and audio magic relatively easy to use. All of them had learned to Strengthen both themselves and their practice partners and to shield them against simple curses. Just like Neville, they could sometimes be heard humming their magical tunes while walking down the hallways.  
  
Harry and Hermione were, to say the least, not quite as successful. "It's in your wands' cores, don't worry about it," was of course Varlerta's standard comment. Maybe due to her lack of success, Hermione was quite obviously sick of that sentence. She had actually taken to mock-quote the teacher when the Gryffindors were safely in the Common Room. If somebody would drop a quill, misplace a book, turn into a canary, half-choke on some stolen food or realise that he had just written two rolls of parchment with a Wheeze Auto-Misspell Quill, Hermione would half-sing: "Oh, don't worry about it. We all have different talents and are all such wonderful people - just don't worry about it."  
  
Even though Neville personally found Varlerta's standard sentence reassuring most of the time, he had to grin when he thought of Hermione's running gag. Lavender was meanwhile struggling to Strengthen herself against the Jelly Legs curse Neville was supposed to hurl at her in a minute; she didn't find it funny.  
  
"Come on, laugh at me and my ineptitude, there's a nice guy, Neville. Just enjoy yourself a bit at my expense, I don't mind," she complained.  
  
"I wasn't laughing at you, I was laughing about Hermione," Neville whispered, taken aback by her sarcasm.  
  
"That's not very nice, either," Lavender hissed, misunderstanding him completely. "You are turning into a smug brat."  
  
Neville looked over his shoulder and saw Hermione wobble about the classroom. The trouble with these Phoenix people is that they are better attackers than defenders, Neville thought. Of course, Harry had survived several encounters with You-Know-Who, so he couldn't be that bad in defence. Neville shuddered. Then he remembered Lavender.  
  
"You misunderstood me. I didn't mean to make fun of anybody." Lavender still glared at him. Did she really think he was smug?  
  
"Let's see, Lavender." Maybe he could make up for his laughter by helping her? "If you hum, you have to hum with your whole body. You must learn to like the tune that you are humming, think that it's the nicest song you've ever heard. Concentrate on the music first, really put your heart into it, and then we can see about the Strengthening."  
  
To his surprise, Lavender closed her eyes and tried.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Around eight, Neville grabbed the bag he had prepared earlier in the afternoon. Then he went down to Professor Varlerta's building to meet her and Ginny for their nightly adventure. Again he felt privileged and special. He would partake in a genuine experiment, not retrace somebody else's steps by learning something that was second hand knowledge. If Professor Varlerta was right and tonight's results would really revolutionise audio magic, Strengthening and a number of other things, he, Neville, would always be able to say: 'I was there on that night of the first lunar eclipse experiment. I was one of the first to profit from the immense power source we discovered.' Of course, the outcome of tonight was by no means certain, but this might mean nothing more and nothing less than the sky being the limit. Five times so far the three of them had been to the stone circle at the full moon now, and each time they had been rewarded with a temporal increase of their magical powers. For tonight's lunar eclipse however, Professor Varlerta's main hope was not only be an enhancement of the full moon power absorption, but a prolongation: Maybe, she said, their enhanced powers would last them a week now, or even longer. She had not mentioned the word 'forever' as an option, but Neville was sure she shared his secret hope that even this might be the effect of tonight's experiment. This lunar eclipse, Neville daydreamed beyond hope, might change his life forever.  
  
Down at Professor Varlerta's building, Ginny and the teacher were already loading Drifter's trunk with shaman drums, guitar, amplifier and a picnic basket which the house elves always prepared for their nightly outings. All three of them took their dose of the potion that would help them see themselves even when Drifter's invisibility booster was on. Neville's excitement increased. They were almost ready to go. He couldn't wait. When he got into the backseat of the Ensouled car - Ginny was occupying the passenger seat as always - it was already dark. Varlerta was dawdling with something, fetching this or that item out of her music lab and then going back again for her hay fever potion. Neville could hardly restrain himself from asking her to hurry, but thought of all the times she had been patient with him, so he managed to keep silent about it. He knew that the moon would not rise until around eight, and that the lunar eclipse would take place past midnight. There was plenty of time, but impatience still had a firm hold over Neville.  
  
Finally Varlerta came out of her building for the last time, got into Drifter's front seat and popped Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon into the CD player. The car rose into the air and speeded through the darkening clouds. Neville breathed deeply, trying to relax, willing his heart to beat at its normal pace. This was ridiculous, he told himself - he couldn't go on like this all night, and the lunar eclipse was still hours away. Concentrating on the old Pink Floyd album helped. It did not sound very lunar yet, but listening to the music in the darkness of the flying car gave the songs a very three-dimensional quality. When Drifter finally descended towards the darkening moor site of the stone circle, Neville found he had attained an acceptable level of calmness. But just as the wheels touched the ground, he had the feeling as if someone had pierced his stomach with an oversized fishing hook and given it a good tuck. It's just the excitement, he told himself, but somehow he knew that was not all there was to it.  
  
"Professor Varlerta, I think there's something wrong!" he blurted out when the witch in the driver's seat turned off the CD. Immediately, he regretted expressing his fears. He didn't want anything to be wrong; he just wanted to go to the stone circle and enjoy its effects. The teacher half-turned towards him; in the near-dark, he could only see her as a silhouette.  
  
"What is wrong, Neville?" she asked calmly.  
  
"I don't know," he answered. "Something doesn't feel right about this place, like - I don't know. Almost like something bad is about to happen."  
  
Varlerta did not reply immediately. After a while she asked: "You feel that there's something wrong, but you have no idea what that something could be?"  
  
Goodness, how he sounded silly again! Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut? She was the teacher, she was in charge; she'd know best whether or not there was something wrong or even dangerous about the stone circle tonight, wouldn't she?  
  
"I probably imagined it," Neville replied. He could hear his own voice quiver.  
  
"Are you a seer, Neville?" Varlerta asked softly.  
  
A seer? Neville Longbottom, a seer? That was impossible, heartstring of dragon in his wand or not. Very plainly Neville remembered Professor Trelawney's contempt, her subtly scathing comments about his utter lack of talent for her subject. "No, I'm not. I've never Seen anything in my life. I'm sorry, Professor Varlerta."  
  
In the darkness, he heard Ginny shift in her seat, her discomfort audible - sometimes body language was not entirely a language for the eye, Neville thought. Varlerta impatiently tapped her wand against her teeth. "I don't like this, I don't like this at all," she murmured. More tapping ensued. Finally she slapped her wand on her thighs.  
  
"See, Neville, don't think I'm not taking your warning seriously, because I am, perhaps more seriously than you take it yourself. However, I've waited for this lunar eclipse for months. The next won't be for ages, and neither will it be as good as this one, Astra says. I don't want to endanger the two of you, but I do want to check this out."  
  
The soft clacking noise meant that Varlerta was opening Drifter's door; a slight draught hit Neville's face.  
  
"Let's do it this way," Varlerta addressed the two of them. "You two will stay in the car. I'll go and see if everything is okay. If so, we proceed as planned. If not, I'll get back to the car and we get out of here ASAP. However, if anything happens to me, you two mustn't do anything stupid, but go for help. Old Drifter will take you back to Hogwarts." She jovially slapped the Ensouled car's steering wheel. "Ginny, you will slip into the driver's seat and get all ready for take-off, just in case."  
  
The teacher climbed out of the car; Ginny moved over to the right until she sat behind the wheel. "Is this going to be dangerous?" she asked apprehensively. "Where do we go for help, anyway - I mean, just in case?"  
  
Varlerta bent back into the car through the open door. "Let's see," she murmured. "You can't go to Dumbledore, because he's got to stay at Hogwarts to protect the castle. Same goes for Professor McGonagall. Can't go to Lupin either, because he's a werewolf tonight. You could go to Flitwick, but ..." She sounded unconvinced. "If it looks bad, better go and see Sirius about it. I suppose he knows how to handle trouble." She nodded in parting and was about to close the driver's door, but changed her mind in the last moment.  
  
"Now, if it looks really bad, better go to Snape," she added as an afterthought, made a face and slammed the door.  
  
Neville craned his neck to properly see in the dark behind the car's window. The full moon had not yet risen, but Professor Varlerta had lit up her wand like a torch. As far as he could see, she was proceeding towards the stone circle with great care. Let it be alright, he pleaded inwardly, let us just have a nice little dance with the transparent circle spirits later. Let's laugh about my stupid misgivings later in the music lab with a glass of hot Butterbeer in our hands after we have stocked up on magical power like never before.  
  
A glimmer on the tall standing stones told Neville that Varlerta had reached the stone circle. In the front seat he could hear Ginny breathe heavily. When a blinding flash descended on the figure standing in the middle of the stone circle, both apprentices screamed. Terror crept up Neville's spine as he watched silvery, glow-in-the-dark cords appear out of nowhere and wrap themselves tightly around the teacher. Varlerta let out a scream that was cut short very suddenly: the cords had reached her mouth. She dropped to the ground like a felled tree. Ginny started to open Drifter's door, but slammed it shut again when close to a dozen hooded figures Apparated on the deserted moor site. Neville did not remember ever seeing a Death Eater in his life, but he recognised them as such nevertheless. Ginny did not need to start Drifter; the car revved up its engine without being told. Just as a couple of the Death Eaters started towards them, Drifter took to the air with an audacity surpassing any of its former stunts. Several of hooded figures shot some green and orange flashes after the fugitives, but missed them by a few feet. Without warning, the car plopped into its Invisibility Drive. Now all Neville could see for a while were a few distant stars. He suppressed the sobs rising in his throat. While they sped home towards the safety of Hogwarts, he wanted to talk to Ginny, but found that he had lost his voice out of sheer terror. 


	21. Ginny

21 - Ginny  
  
They had to decide what to do now, and the closer Drifter came to Hogwarts, the more Ginny realised that the decision was hers to make. "Go and see Sirius about it," Varlerta had said. Sirius ... For a sweet minute, Ginny imagined herself running to his quarters in the west wing, tearfully collapsing in his arms and being comforted by him. Of course, by the time he'd have the story out of her, it would be late, very late ... too late to rescue Varlerta. Sirius would be grief-stricken, just like Neville and her, but he also would be free ...  
  
Ginny chided herself for being so heartless and shallow. Varlerta had taught her so much, had done all she could for her apprentices, had often been patient and usually good company. The teacher had let her practice on her drum set in the evening even though she probably would have liked a bit of quiet after a long day of teaching. She had left some very informative Muggle books about the 'facts of life' on a shelf for Ginny to nick instead of embarrassing her student by lending her them directly. Varlerta just didn't deserve to be left to her fate just because a stupid and faithless teenager, a girl that didn't deserve the name Weasley, had developed a hopeless crush on an adult, Ginny thought contemptuously. By the time Drifter's wheels touched the lawn near Hogwarts' front portal, she knew what she had to do.  
  
As soon as the car popped into visibility, she quickly opened the door and got out. Neville did the same. He looked pale and frightened. Ginny realised he would have to be told what to do. Sending him to get Snape did not sound like a good idea at all; she would have to assign the easier task to him. Ginny pulled his sleeve and hurried towards the castle with him. "Neville, do you know where Sirius sleeps?" she asked and magically opened the front door, another little thing that Varlerta had taught her, probably in disregard of some school rule.  
  
"Yes," Neville replied. Even in this one-syllable word, the quaver in his voice was well audible.  
  
Ginny tried her best to keep her voice firm, trying to make him believe she knew what she was doing. "You have to get him out of bed and tell him what happened. I want him down here half an hour ago. Do you understand me?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Neville replied obediently and ran up the staircase that led towards the western wing.  
  
The Entrance Hall was empty and sparely lit. A look at her watch told Ginny that it was much later than she would have thought. Maybe Drifter had flown home another way to confuse pursuers? Now wasn't the time to wonder about it. She ran down the winding stairs to the dungeon, willing herself not to think about where she was going. "If it looks really bad...." It certainly had, there were no two ways about it.  
  
Sooner than she would have liked, she found herself outside Snape's private chamber, in front of a plain, wooden door marked with a green serpent. She forced herself to knock.  
  
Snape opened almost immediately. To her relief, not the least to the relief of her sense of aesthetics, he was fully dressed in one of his no-nonsense black robes. Out of his pale face, his black eyes stared at her as if she was some obscure insect, even too absurd to serve as a potion ingredient. "Miss Weasley," he hissed. "What in the world possesses you to disturb me in the middle of the night?"  
  
Ginny found it hard to catch her breath. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw scrawny Mrs. Norris shoot out between Snape's legs and dart off into the corridor. "I'm sorry, Professor Snape, but Professor Varlerta said I should go to you for help. The Death Eaters caught her, and I think she's in a lot of trouble."  
  
Snape's face was completely expressionless. "What happened?" he asked.  
  
"They set us a trap at the stone circle. She told us to stay in the car while she checked things out, and to go for help if something happened. Please, Professor Snape," Ginny pleaded, "she said you could help!"  
  
"How many Death Eaters did you say there were?"  
  
Ginny hadn't said anything about their number, and was pretty sure that Snape was perfectly aware of this. "Ten, maybe twelve," she said in a small voice.  
  
Snape stared beyond her for a moment, then reached into his chamber for a black cloak and a small, black leather case. Without a word he closed the door behind him and followed Ginny out to the car.  
  
Leaning against Drifter, Neville and Sirius were already waiting for them. When Snape recognised them, he snarled at Sirius: "You? What are you doing out here?"  
  
Sirius' eyes narrowed; he tapped his wand against his palm. "Trying to rescue Professor Varlerta from the Death Eaters. What brings you out here at this hour, Snape?" Ginny could see the muscles around his chin contract. He's even handsome when he's angry, she thought.  
  
Snape snorted and cast Ginny a hateful glance. I should have told him that she asked for Sirius as well, she thought. Snape will kill me for this someday - if the Death Eaters don't kill us first, that is.  
  
"Oh, are you? Shouldn't you better hide upstairs in your room?" Snape spat at Sirius. "I've got to find some decent wizards to take with me. I don't think we can overcome a dozen Death Eaters with losers like you!"  
  
Nobody had the right to insult Sirius like that, Ginny thought, altogether forgetting that she was talking to her teacher. "He's not a loser, and Professor Varlerta said he knows how to handle trouble, and she said we can't ask Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall, and I think we'd better hurry up, and...."  
  
Snape crossed his arms before his chest. Ignoring Ginny, he turned to Sirius. "Attack them with two wizards?" he asked. "This is madness, Black, and you know it!"  
  
Probably unconsciously, Sirius assumed the same posture. "Scared, Snape? Maybe it's you who should stay here. I know what I have to do." Then he turned to Ginny. "There can be no question of 'we', young lady. You two are going to bed, right now!"  
  
Ginny stretched herself to her full height. "Of course we are coming with you," she replied defiantly. "Strengthening and Shielding others are the things Neville and I are trained for. That's what we are going to do tonight!"  
  
She tugged at Neville's sleeve. "Of course, of course," Neville added, though he did not sound like he meant it.  
  
Sirius shook his head. "Over my dead body, Ginny," he replied.  
  
"You'll never find the stone circle by yourself, and you won't be able to fly Drifter," she argued. "Let's go, I think we don't have any time to lose."  
  
Her last words must have done the trick, because Snape just bit his lip and nodded. When Ginny opened the car's door, all three males followed her hint. Sirius sat down on the passenger seat, while Neville and Snape scrambled into the back. Ginny took her place behind the wheel; she could feel the knees of Snape's long legs poking into the back of her seat. While she nudged Drifter into the air and into invisibility, she could hear the teacher mumble: "Madness, utter madness."  
  
Now that they were on their way, Ginny realised that Snape probably had a point there. They were crazy to attempt this, and maybe none of them would come back alive. Had anyone of them done some serious thinking instead of plunging into a pride-ridden argument, they wouldn't be here now, but would wait for a squad of trained Aurors to sort things out. Not even Neville, who probably was at least as scared as she, had dared to point out the insanity of their undertaking. Ginny shook her head. Seeing the ground fade into darkness far below her, she decided there was no way of turning back now. She heard Sirius' irregular breath next to her. It occurred to her that normally having him so close would have made her giddy. Behind her, she could almost feel Snape and Neville hate each other in silence. "Hurry, Drifter," she whispered to the car. In the darkness, she had no perception of speed or time, but she was sure the car would give its best.  
  
Finally, Drifter landed near the stone circle. Invisibly and noiselessly, the car rolled towards the place where Ginny and Neville had seen the Death Eaters Apparate. The full moon shone; somewhere in the back of her mind, some part of her realised that they had already missed the short time of the lunar eclipse they had looked forward to so much. Most of her head, however, focussed on the discovery that the moor site was again deserted. There was not a Death Eater in sight, and neither could they see anything of Varlerta. Ginny heard Sirius swear beside her. When he abandoned all caution and got out of the car, the other three followed him. The stone circle lay before them in the moonlight, without a trace of anyone. They took her away, Ginny thought and felt her heart sink. What were they to do now?  
  
Sirius bent down and pried something out of the moist grass: He had found Varlerta's wand. With the edge of his robe, he wiped it clean and put it into his pocket. "Do we have any chance at all to find her now?" he asked no one in particular.  
  
"Let's try Lizard's Tongue." Snape's voice came out of the darkness from behind her, an eerie reminder of Potions class. "It wouldn't surprise me if they had rebuilt that place. It used to be a place to take prisoners, and it's not too far. If they have her with them, they can't Disapparate or use a Portkey very well, so I guess they'll have some other means of transportation, a magic carpet or something like that."  
  
Sirius looked at Snape; Ginny thought she could see disgust on his face. "Can you lead us to this place?"  
  
"I suppose so," Snape murmured and started back towards the car. The others followed.  
  
"Let me get into the passenger's seat, Miss Weasley, so I can give you directions." Snape opened Drifter's left front door. Ginny let Neville and Sirius into the back, got in and started the car. "Give directions then, Professor," she said, realising that she sounded sarcastic rather than polite.  
  
An eye on the compass, Snape told her where to fly. Ginny remembered what Ron had told her: Snape had once been a Death Eater. He must remember the place called Lizard's Tongue from those days, she thought; he probably had flown there on broomstick before. Suddenly a lump of panic formed in her stomach. Could she trust Snape, or would he betray them to the Death Eaters as soon as they got there? Ginny clenched the Steering Wheel so hard that Drifter's engine complained, but she resisted the urge to turn around to Hogwarts immediately. Varlerta asked for Snape, she thought. She wouldn't have done that if Snape was a spy of You-Know-Who, would she?  
  
"Descend onto that hill," Snape told her after a while. "Be sure that the car makes no sound and leave it in its Invisibility Drive."  
  
Ginny and Drifter complied as well as they could. Noiselessly they landed behind a few ragged trees that offered a minimum of concealment. Looking downwards through the branches, Ginny could discern some sparsely lit windows some way off. There was a building ahead, and she was quite sure that this building was not an isolated country inn. Somehow, approaching it and knocking on the door seemed not a good idea at all. I am likely to throw up or wet myself if I don't manage to keep my fear in check, she thought.  
  
"When we get out, we'll be visible," Sirius whispered. "Let me take a look first. I've got Harry's Invisibility Cloak with me."  
  
Taking the Cloak had been a fabulous idea, Ginny thought admiringly. Trying hard to make no noise whatsoever, she got out of her seat and crouched down on the floor to be inconspicuous. She saw Sirius' silhouette disappear below the Cloak and felt rather than heard him pass her. She would have liked to tell him that he should be careful, but knew that would have been silly as well as too risky: The less noise they made, the better.  
  
Only a slight draught on her face alerted Ginny to the fact that Snape had opened the passenger's door and was crouching on the floor as well. Seeing him through the invisible car was strange indeed. "Do as I do," the Potions Master mouthed towards her. Ginny realised that he was smearing his face and hands with dirt so they would not shine in the dark. Now Neville appeared at her side with an audible clatter that sent adrenaline running through her veins. She put her finger to her lips and pointed at his face, inducing him to imitate Snape's and her behaviour. Then the three of them leant against the invisible car, hoping their meagre concealment of trees and dirt camouflage would suffice.  
  
Waiting for Sirius to return was torture for Ginny. What if the Death Eaters had Invisibility Revealing Spells, what if they caught and killed him? Would they have any Dementors with them who might suck out Sirius' soul? To take her mind off these horrible thoughts, she watched Neville and Snape suffer their form of anxiety next to her in their flimsy hiding place. Neville, she knew, was close to being scared out of his wits. He was chewing his fingernails, something he did not usually do; his eyes were fixed on the lights of the building nearby. Professor Snape stood rigid as a statue, but something in his scarcely lit face told her that his calmness was nothing but an outer mask. When he suddenly turned around to look behind him, he started Ginny and Neville rather badly. Ginny felt as if her heart would stop; she expected that a group of Death Eaters had Apparated behind their backs. When she turned to see Sirius take off the hood of the Invisibility Cloak, she felt relief hit her like a sudden bout of flu. He had made it back to them safely!  
  
"She's alive, I've seen her," Sirius whispered to Ginny and Neville, ignoring the adult wizard that stood beside him.  
  
"Did they....?" The urgency in Snape's voice as well as his reluctance to finish his sentence sent Ginny's imagination on the most horrible path. She did not want to think about such things now or she would indeed throw up.  
  
"Did they - what?" Somehow, Sirius managed to snarl at Snape with minimum volume but maximum aggression.  
  
"Did they - hurt her?" Contempt and plea mingled oddly in Snape's question.  
  
"What do your kind do to women they capture?" Sirius asked, keeping each syllable short as if hoping that he could keep the hems of his words out of the mud. He took a step towards Snape, his body poised and his wand in his hand, ready if Snape attacked. They were angry enough to duel here and now, Ginny thought, but surely this was not the time and place for something like that?  
  
"Did they hurt her, Black?" Snape hissed. As the two wizards faced each other like stags challenging each other to fight, it suddenly occurred to her how alike they were: Two tall, thin, black-haired males in their late thirties, dressed in dark wizards' robes, their faces pale in the light of the full moon, their eyes bloodshot and not exactly sane-looking - both baring yellow sets of teeth at one another in utmost loathing. Then Sirius gave Snape a wicked grin and spat:  
  
"They didn't hurt her yet, Snape. I listened to them talk. They said they were to deliver her unspoilt for now. Does that word mean anything to you, Snape? I mean, you are sure to be acquainted with the difference between spoilt and unspoilt from your former career, and how this difference is brought about, aren't you? I bet you know exactly what they yet have in store for her."  
  
"They are not my kind," Snape replied softly and turned his gaze to the floor in a gesture of defeat. "Let's just get her out and get this over with."  
  
Sirius wanted to reply, but Ginny had heard enough. Suddenly she felt more angry with both of them than she had ever thought possible.  
  
"Will you two immature idiots stop indulging in your personal rivalries and come up with a decent plan of how to rescue Professor Varlerta any time soon now?" she heard herself snarl in a voice she did not recognise as her own. Sirius and Snape just stared at her, apparently lost for words for a moment. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, Ginny decided and banned all thoughts of the fact that she had just called Hogwarts' most feared teacher an immature idiot.  
  
"I thought you had come here to rescue her," she whispered. "Do you know how to proceed, or do I fly back to Hogwarts to get some real men to do the job?"  
  
"We have no time for this," Snape answered her, ignoring her insults. "I suggest the following plan. Black will describe the layout of the re- erected building to us. He will tell us where the Death Eaters are and where he and I sneak into the building. You and - Neville -" it was the first notice Snape had taken of Neville that night, and Ginny realised that he did so quite reluctantly - "you two will take the Invisibility Cloak, try to get as close to the building as possible and protect us with your little Shielding tricks."  
  
"Ginny and Neville will stay in the car, Snape," Sirius objected in a barely audible voice. "There is no way that I will let two adolescents sacrifice their lives for me!"  
  
"Oh, you would rather be curse fodder, Black? Running up for the first prize in the martyr contest once more?" There was a trace of the blackest of humour in Snape's voice; Ginny could not see his face clearly in the darkness, but was sure his lip was curling evilly. "If you do not value your life overly highly, you may have a point there, but if you had done a minimum of thinking, you would know that for all your noble character, dead wizards won't rescue anybody. They -" Snape waved his wand at Ginny and Neville with a depreciatory gesture - "didn't come here to hide, they came to help. Well, we've got a job for them."  
  
Before Sirius could protest, Ginny replied: "That sounds like a good plan, Professor. Tell me what to do." She nudged Neville into nodding agreement.  
  
"The floor is Black's then," Snape breathed at her and made a mock-inviting gesture. "So what did you see, Black?"  
  
Sirius' jaw tensed up; it was plain that it didn't suit him to take orders from Snape. Ginny's heart missed a beat when Sirius cast her a sidelong glance before answering Snape:  
  
"They keep her in the room at the far end of the building, over there." He pointed a finger at a lighted window. "She's tied up and gagged and has probably been beaten a bit, but seemed conscious and not badly hurt. I counted ten Death Eaters in that room and the one adjoining it. They are wearing hoods and don't look like they are going to relax any time soon; from what I gathered from their conversation, such as I could overhear, they are expecting someone to come and fetch her."  
  
"Then we have no time to lose," Snape said hoarsely. He took his black leather case out of the car and handed each of them a small bottle.  
  
"This will slightly better your chances to come out of this alive," he said, opened his bottle and drained it in one draught.  
  
Ginny felt a slight resentment at the fact that the Potions Master did not tell them what kind of potion they were supposed to drink, but a look at Neville's and Sirius' face told her that arguing would only make matters worse. Either they trusted Snape, or they Transfixed him and tried to rescue Varlerta on their own, such was the score. To set an example, she uncorked the bottle and drank the bitter-tasting potion. Sirius shrugged and did the same, and after a short moment of hesitation, Neville followed suit as well.  
  
"We will crawl up to that building until we are about twenty feet away and hope they won't notice us," Snape told Sirius without looking at him. "I'll throw this at the window," he held up another bottle. "It will cause a small explosion and startle those within, but won't harm us because the potion I just gave you will protect us. We will have to be very quick then. Transfix them, Stun them or use Lacera, just blow everyone out of the way. Never stand in one spot for as long as a second. They won't get any Avada Kedavra ready in time if we keep moving. What we'll have to deal with are medium-strength curses of all different kinds. That's where you two come in." He turned to Ginny. "Can you deal with that?"  
  
"We'll try," Ginny replied in a small voice, though she knew that the odds were not in their favour. Medium-strength curses - Varlerta had told them that in a year or so, they might attempt a Shielding against such attacks. Neville, she noticed, did not look up at all but kept glancing at his feet.  
  
"You two will be invisible, but of course, as soon as you do audio magic, they may try to locate you through the sound you are making. Do not at any rate use your instruments before I make the window explode. Keep on moving, do not stay in one spot or forget to Shield yourselves - if you are dead or badly hurt, you will not be of help to anybody."  
  
Ginny nodded to Snape to show him she had understood. Then she went to open Drifter's boot to take out the large Shaman drum. Touching the instrument gave her a pang: She had packed it to partake in an exciting and empowering ritual, and now would need it in a matter of life and death. What's more, Neville and she hadn't had the chance to gather the extra power of the lunar eclipse or even of the full moon on the night that they needed it most.  
  
"Ginny, can you work Valerie's wand guitar?" a voice murmured over her shoulder. She turned and looked into the dirt-smeared, oddly thoughtful face of Snape.  
  
"Wand guitar?" It was the first she had heard of it.  
  
Snape shrugged. "I feared so. Well, leave it, then - it's too dangerous if you do not know how to use it." When Ginny gave him a questioning look, he replied in short hand: "Unicorn hair worked into its neck. Come on, no time to lose."  
  
Meanwhile, Sirius had dirtied his hands and face as well; Neville had assembled his traverse flute and was holding his wand in his other hand. Sirius gave her the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
"It will cover both of you if you are careful. Please, don't take any unnecessary risks and make sure you don't get killed." He made Ginny's heart rather sea-sick by hugging her around the shoulder very briefly. Then Sirius Transformed into a dog, something Ginny had never seen him do before, though of course she knew him in his canine shape. Snape and the dog carefully crawled towards the building, closely followed by Ginny and Neville who huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
"I will Shield Sirius, you will Shield Snape," Ginny whispered to her companion. She knew that due to Neville's dislike of Snape, this was not exactly a perfect constellation, but there was no way she would leave Sirius' protection up to Neville. "Let's both set a bit of our attention aside to Shield ourselves." She knew this might be beyond their abilities, because they had never attempted to do two things at once. However, they had to try. Neville nodded vigorously, almost causing the Cloak to slip of their shoulders.  
  
The teacher and the dog seemed to melt into the darkness and were soon out of their sight; if Sirius hadn't pointed out which window they were approaching, the two apprentices would not have known where to go. Ginny felt Neville close to her under the Cloak. She smelt the acidic odour of fear, but did not know if it he or she herself was emitting it. If we only come out of this alive, she thought right at the moment when straight ahead, the window exploded in fire and glass shards. Several men shouted or screamed; she could see Sirius and Snape climb in through the broken window, wands in their hands.  
  
Ginny started beating her drum, willing herself to stay calm enough to build up the regular heartbeat rhythm that would carry her magic through to protect Sirius. On her right, Neville put his flute to his lips. While his first eerie notes pearled into the night, Ginny felt the Cloak slip again. Without breaking her rhythm, she squared her shoulders to keep the Cloak in place. She knew it was endangered of slipping down again. Gathering up enough strength to serve as a Shield for Sirius, keeping on the move and staying hidden below the Cloak was more than enough to hold her attention, Ginny realised. There was no thinking of trying to Strengthen anyone else, let alone build up another Shield for Neville and herself. She could only hope that Sirius and Snape kept the Death Eaters so busy that they wouldn't find time to search for the two audio magic apprentices or blast a couple of curses at them.  
  
Through the broken window, the brightly lit room was well visible, but it was not easy to make out what was happening. Hooded shapes ran here and there, shooting off brightly coloured flashes every couple of seconds. The air was filled with booms and bangs; curses hissed, and flashes sizzled softly. Ginny focussed on Sirius. Some time around February she had found out that she could actually see her magic if she concentrated on her inner rather than physical eyes. A faint, coppery glow floated around Sirius; it pulsated with each beat of her drum and flared up each time a curse hit it. It would probably not have sufficed if Sirius hadn't dodged most attacks rather skilfully: He jumped to this side or that, his eyes always on his many attackers. Two or three of the Death Eaters were down, Ginny realised. That was good, but not good enough; Snape and Sirius were still hopelessly outnumbered, and any moment it might be one of them who dropped to the floor, Stunned or maybe dead.  
  
Without interrupting his playing, Neville nudged Ginny in the side. She understood: They had to get closer to the window even if it was dangerous, because half of the time they could not properly see what was going on. Getting closer was dangerous, and surely the Death Eaters must by now have heard the strange music they were making; one of them might attempt to finish off the two of them any minute. Neville took over the decision by taking a few steps forwards. Ginny had to follow if she did not want the Cloak to slip off her. At the window, the two of them had a much better view of the room inside. Finally, she could make sense of the whirl of flames, flashes and dark, moving figures in front of her eyes. Sirius and Snape were moving back to back now, both shooting fire and flashes from their wands. They had found a common rhythm to coordinate their bodies and magic, protecting each other. Of course, Ginny thought if one of them got hit, the other didn't stand much of a chance of escaping this inferno alive. This, however, might be said for the four of them as well: They all had to depend on each other. For the first time, Ginny saw Neville's magic as she saw her own: A silvery-green haze fluttered around Snape's body, absorbing the menacing flashes that were hurled at it. Where the backs of the two wizards touched, his Shield was mingling with the reddish Shield she was drumming up around Sirius.  
  
Both adult wizards were attacking rapidly, forcing the Death Eaters to dodge their curses rather than finding the time to attack properly. With an oddly detached pleasure Ginny noticed that their Shields did not only work quite well, but also seemed to blur the shapes of the two wizards in the eyes of their attackers, which made aiming curses at them trickier. Now there were only five Death Eaters on their feet, Ginny realised, and for the first time she felt hope rise in her. They might actually succeed! Ginny steadied her beat, anticipating the next attack on Sirius. The more she concentrated on his body, the more she felt as if she actually was him. Her Shield moved with him each time he moved a limb, and joined his defence spells whenever he managed to Counter an attacking curse in time.  
  
Ginny's attention was exclusively focussed on Sirius; when a large, hooded Death Eater suddenly stood in front of them, she took an enormous fright as she had not seen him approach. The Death Eater pointed his wand at the two of them and shouted: "Perzepté!" A yellow light flared up, and when the eyes behind the black looked right into her face, Ginny knew without the shadow of a doubt that he had seen through the Invisibility Cloak. The Death Eater raised his wand again, pointed and took a deep breath. This is it, Ginny thought: We are going to die now.  
  
Right in the middle of the "Avada," a black cloud formed around the Death Eater, constricted and imploded in a flare of non-light. Ginny found it hard to stay on her feet and keep the drum in her hands, let alone make sense of her perception. She saw Snape stand right beside the window, pointing his wand at the cloud until it dwindled to nothing, leaving not the faintest trace of the Death Eater that had disappeared in it. Before either she or Neville could properly set up their Shields again, another Death Eater aimed a curse at Snape and hit him squarely. Snape shot a ball of white-hot energy back at his attacker before sinking to the ground. Blood trickled out of his half-open mouth, forming a puddle next to his face; his eyes were closed, his right hand lax, barely holding on to his wand. Ginny forced her attention back on Sirius. He needed her magic protection, and if Snape was hurt or dead, he needed it more than ever. He had to fight the remaining three Death Eaters single-wandedly now, and if she wasn't mistaken, these three were the toughest of the group, the most ferocious fighters of them all. Sirius fought with his wand, with his arms and his legs. He cursed one Death Eater, then kicked another into the stomach with a wide swing of his leg, and jumped out of the way of an attacking curse before he even had both of his feet on the floor again, it seemed. A distant corner of Ginny's mind admired him, but most of her concentrated on keeping him alive.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw Neville's silver-green haze of magic, rippling through the air like the tunes he was playing. He was not Shielding Snape anymore, she realised. This might make sense if Snape was really dead - but what was Neville doing with his magic? Hardly daring to take a fraction of her attention off Sirius even for a moment, Ginny permitted herself one quick glance at Neville's magic. Sprawled on a large chest in the corner, Professor Varlerta was fighting against her magical bonds. Her gag was off, and she was humming loudly to Coax off the silvery cords that held her arms and legs. Neville was Strengthening her, sending her energy to support her in her attempt to free herself. If Varlerta's bonds were off, she might be able to help Sirius, Ginny realised. Neville's idea was pretty good then - if these last two Death Eaters didn't manage to kill Sirius first.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" It was not the first Disarming Spell the attacking Death Eaters had tried; so far Ginny's and Neville's Shields had prevented them from working. When one of the remaining two Death Eaters tried to disarm Sirius, Ginny felt the force of his spell on her own body: This attacker was stronger than the others had been. Keep up the beat, she told herself. It worked; Sirius still had his wand and was shooting something corrosive- looking at the other Death Eater. "Expelliarmus!" This time, the Disarming Spell was directed at Snape who was still lying motionless on the floor, unprotected by any Shield because Neville was supporting Varlerta now.  
  
"Nice try, Crabbe," Snape murmured. His wand had not left his hand. Though his face was a bloody mask and he seemed to have difficulties with focussing his eyes, he tried to pull himself up to his knees. Sirius, Ginny reminded herself, but gave Neville a nudge, hoping to turn his attention back to Snape. Meanwhile, Sirius had put the startled Death Eater out of action. There was only one of them left now.  
  
"Drop your wands, or she'll die!" The last of the Death Eaters stood in the middle of the room, his wand pointed at Varlerta's temples. The witch was kneeling on the floor, still bound with magical cords; the Death Eater had trapped her between his knees. Around the two of them, there was a magical Shield - a real Shield, not a colourful haze Coaxed into protecting those inside of it, but a solid, glassy looking device of defence. Varlerta had once demonstrated such a piece of advanced magic to Ginny and Neville. It had taken her an hour to conjure it up. This Shield was by far stronger than Varlerta's, Ginny knew by looking at it, and it had taken the Death Eater only a few seconds to produce it. Their troubles were by no means over yet; the wizard under the hood had to possess great powers indeed.  
  
"Let her go, Nott," Snape croaked, still kneeling. "Leave her, and you'll walk out of this free and alive, I promise on my honour. Hurt her, and probably neither of us will."  
  
"You promise on your honour, Snape?" Nott laughed. "The faceless traitor promises on his honour? I'll save that joke for your conflagration - after we have cut your body and soul into pieces and extracted from you all the information we may find useful. The Dark Lord will personally savour your screams, tonight or some night soon." He made a fist of his left hand and slammed it into Varlerta's face, maybe to get Sirius and Snape to do something stupid.  
  
"You are protected for now, but how will you get out alive?" Snape retorted calmly. Sirius stepped behind them, his wand in his hand. Ginny concentrated on Shielding him as well as she could. Try to become one with the drum, she told herself and fell into a slow, trance-like triplet rhythm. 'The skin on your palm is the skin on your drum. The skin on your palm is the skin on your drum.' Hollow sounds filled the air, but Ginny was straining her ears to hear beyond them.  
  
"I will get out, Snape, don't worry," Nott laughed. "First of all I will eliminate the cute little mascots you have brought for your protection." He shot a curse straight at the two apprentices behind the broken window. Neville must have caught Nott's words faster than Ginny, because he drew his Shield away from Snape and around the two of them. In spite of this, Ginny felt herself freeze. The curse worked much like Icy Fingers, but its main effect was not its dreadful cold but its Transfixing effect. Ginny felt the drum slide out of her fingers and knew that Neville's flute must have done the same. It is over, she thought once more.  
  
Nott pointed his wand again, this time at Sirius. "Expelliarmus!" For once, he succeeded: Sirius' stumbled backwards; his wand flew out of his hand and passed the magical Shield unhindered. Nott caught it deftly and got ready to attack the defenceless Sirius now, but suddenly his eyes widened in incomprehension: Varlerta, Ginny realised, must have gotten a hand free. She had slipped it upwards, right into Nott's groin, and now she was squeezing, tearing and pulling with all her might. Nott bent over with a groan of utmost pain and lost control of his solid Shield; Ginny and Neville could suddenly move again. While Snape was scrambling to his feet, Sirius jumped up, retrieved his wand and shot a curse straight into Nott's face.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The room didn't quite look as if it had come out of an ad for interior decoration, Ginny thought wryly. Walls and furniture were scorched and dirty; so were the nine motionless figures on the floor. Sirius had spelled away Varlerta's bonds; now he was helping her up. Her face was swollen and slightly bloody. Probably her nose was broken, Ginny thought, but otherwise the witch seemed alright. Snape was nudging the Death Eaters on the floor with his foot, maybe trying to find out who was dead and who was only Stunned. He thoughtfully rubbed his toes over a dark spot on the floor, making Ginny wonder what had happened to the Death Eater he had made disappear without a trace.  
  
She felt like vomiting, crying and laughing at the same time. To give her attempts at composure a bit of time, she scrambled inside through the broken window. She had to take care not to cut herself on any shards, which was not easy, because her aching hands made her clumsy. Neville followed her. He looked dazed and unbelieving, mirroring Ginny's own feelings in his face. If she didn't misunderstand matters, they had just done it. The four of them had battled with ten Death Eaters and had won. Varlerta was free.  
  
Still rather wobbly on his feet, Snape was looking down on the Death Eater called Crabbe, probably the father of the former Slytherin student, as Ginny realised with a shudder. The Potions Master sneered, murmured "iacet, tacet, placet, Braindead," and then averted his face from the figure on the ground. Ginny did not understand Latin, but somehow Snape's words sounded very much like an epitaph. "Are they dead or Stunned?" she asked no one in particular.  
  
"They are only Stunned, Ginny," Sirius replied very quickly. Even more than the rest of them, he was very sweaty and very dirty, but he did not seem badly hurt. "Let's get out of here. They said they were expecting people. We don't want to be surprised in this building."  
  
No one had any objection to this, so they all climbed out of the window and somehow made their way back to Drifter in spite of their bad shape. When they had arrived at the car, Varlerta put one hand on Ginny's shoulder and the other one on Neville's. With a voice that was slightly nasal, she said:  
  
"Kids, I'd like to thank you for saving my life. Let me say that you did a great job at magic tonight and that I'm extremely proud of you." Then, to everyone's profound embarrassment, she kissed both Neville and Ginny on the cheek. When Varlerta turned to Sirius, Ginny held her breath. "You, too, Sirius: Thank you. I will never forget what I owe you." She kissed his cheek as well, but to Ginny's relief, neither of them lingered on this, if only due to the fact that Varlerta's face must hurt her considerably. The teacher then turned to Snape and put a hand on his arm.  
  
"Verus, thank you for saving my neck tonight."  
  
The Potions Master turned away from her and shook off her arm. The movement almost threw him off balance; he only caught himself on Drifter's invisible roof just in time.  
  
"Will you not let me thank you?" With her smashed-in nose and her pleading eyes, Varlerta was not a pretty, but a rather moving sight, Ginny thought. Snape however did not seem moved in any way.  
  
"It was your usual irresponsible folly that brought you into the power of the Death Eaters tonight, Professor Varlerta," he replied coldly.  
  
Varlerta looked down at the ground; Ginny thought that in the moonlight, she could see tears blink in the teacher's eyes. Then Varlerta swallowed and looked up at him again. "I still thank you for saving my life," she said, this time with a steely quality in her voice.  
  
"I will Disapparate to the Ministry and inform Hawks," Snape croaked. "Somebody has to take care of this mess." He indicated the house below by pointing his chin.  
  
"Verus, please. You are in no condition to Apparate - you can hardly walk!" Varlerta sounded worried.  
  
"Would you please mind your own affairs, Professor Varlerta?" Snape snarled back. "This might even induce you to manage them acceptably in the future. Someone certainly has to get them. Need I mention to you that I am the only one of this group who has ever learned to Disapparate, or that, strictly speaking, both you and Black are wanted dead or alive by the Ministry?"  
  
Even with his last dying breath Snape would find a way to hurt someone, Ginny thought. The Potions Master disappeared on the spot, though not without flashing back into visibility for a second once or twice, to Ginny a sure sign that he was indeed not quite fit enough to Apparate.  
  
Sirius handed Varlerta back her wand. She tapped Drifter's roof with it to make the car visible. Then Sirius helped her into the backseat and slumped down beside her, much to Ginny's displeasure. Neville for once got to sit in the passenger seat, while Ginny took her place behind the wheel. "Take us home, Drifter," she said, and the car rose into the air. "That's my girl," Varlerta murmured proudly, almost a smile on her discoloured face.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
While Neville still slept in the car, Sirius and Ginny helped Varlerta onto one of the sofas in the music lab and promised her that they would go and get Madam Pomfrey for her. Sirius pulled the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders until only his head was visible. "I'll go and wake her," he told Ginny. "Will you please stay with Professor Varlerta?"  
  
"Sure," Ginny said and sat down beside her teacher. The adult witch looked at the ceiling for a minute, then reached out for the remote control of her stereo - her all-time remedy, Ginny thought. The noisy Sonic Youth CD that had already been in the player wasn't anything Ginny would have chosen to ease any pain, but who was she to argue? Varlerta hit the remote control's forward button until the song Tunic played. Then she related to Ginny the story of an American easy listening singer and drummer who died of Anorexia and to whom she said this song was dedicated. Ginny had never heard of her and felt that Varlerta was only blubbering incoherent nonsense to let out some tension or maybe to avoid the subject of tonight's outing.  
  
"You see, this woman was such a great musician, and they made her insecure by saying she was fat and everything. - By the way, don't you think it strange that the Death Eaters knew when and where to find us? I mean, they knew who I am and were specifically out to get me. - Anyways, these people told Karen Carpenter that she should not play the drums on stage, because people expected her to stand up there as front woman -" The more Varlerta talked and warned Ginny of the dangers of Anorexia and of 'not being who you really are', the more Ginny had the impression that the teacher was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She's in shock, she reminded herself. More than ever she had the impression that their relationship was not a one- sided teacher-student-relationship, but that Varlerta sometimes needed at least as much looking after as her trainees did. Suddenly the teacher half- grinned at her, but then became serious again. While fingering the bulging clay amulet she usually wore hidden under her robes, she said:  
  
"Ginny, I'm really sorry about tonight. I shouldn't have drawn any of you into this, and I just wish that I could turn back time. I would certainly make sure that neither Neville nor you had to take part in such a fight, or witness one."  
  
Her earnestness made Ginny think of the Death Eaters who of course had only been Stunned. She shook her head. "It's alright," she said, but in her heart, she knew that it was not, that this night would probably haunt her all her life.  
  
"Ginny, will you take the large Shaman drum?" Varlerta asked. At first, Ginny did not understand what she meant; then she replied:  
  
"Oh, no, I can't do that. It is much too valuable!"  
  
Varlerta laughed as well as she could. She made a face at the pain it caused her, but then stopped, maybe because making a face hurt as well. "Hardly any gift is too valuable for someone who saved my life, don't you think? I wish I had something of equal value to give to Neville, but maybe one day I will. By the way, somehow I think this might not be the last time that the two of you will have to save my life, so I better keep you well- equipped, don't you think?"  
  
Ginny did not know what to reply to that, even though the thought of owning the large Shaman drum made her rather happy. She was saved from answering by the arrival of Sirius, Madam Pomfrey and Neville, who must have woken up in the meantime.  
  
"Children, children, what have you done this time?" the matron said in dismay when she got a good look at the four of them, and Ginny was sure that by 'children', she did not only mean Neville and her. 


	22. Ron

22 - Ron  
  
As spring made its way towards summer, the upcoming OWLs wormed their way into everybody's thoughts until they dominated practically every conversation among fifth years. Students groaned and complained of nightmares. Teachers admonished them to revise. In the Gryffindor Common Room, books and parchments had replaced Gobstones and Exploding Snap cards, much to the amusement of the younger students. Revision tables circulated among students like evil rumours, and everybody suddenly was Hermione's best friend. Hermione had finally forbidden everybody to approach her earlier than eight thirty each night because she needed to keep some of her time to herself.  
  
OWLs were the most basic qualifications of grown wizards and witches: If you had passed them, you were not considered entirely underage anymore. This meant you attained permission to perform certain spells outside school; if you did not want to go on to get your NEWTs, you could even leave school after getting your OWLs to take up some kind of apprenticeship. Of course, nobody really wanted to leave school early, because most prestige jobs required NEWTs, not to mention good OWL marks.  
  
Each teacher had his or her own way of preparing students for the upcoming exams. Professor McGonagall had handed out a seemingly endless list of the Transfigurations as well as the theoretical chapters that she considered exam material. Flitwick gave his students good advice about their preparations, on some days four times per lesson, while Binns was boring as ever, probably oblivious to the fact that for once, students were trying to make sense of his soliloquies. Snape scared his students into studying by looking more evil than usual; kind Professor Sprout revised a lot of material in class; Professor Trelawney unnerved everybody by predicting their marks, not without contradicting herself now and then. Professor Varlerta had the most unusual method of preparation, Ron thought: Not only had she dedicated twelve whole lessons to revision, but she was making her students teach these lessons, something that would make up for half of their Defence Against the Dark Arts marks. The other half of the mark, she had said, would be given for their practical performance in the exams; they would be tested - and would receive marks - together with their practice partner.  
  
Hermione was not amused. "Nobody has ever done such a thing before," she complained. "It doesn't seem fair to receive marks for somebody else's achievement."  
  
Ron wondered if she was talking about good marks Harry might receive for her performance or about bad marks she might receive for him. He had asked Hermione why she did not complain to Varlerta about her unfair grading system. Hermione had given him a scowl. "She said if you really work with a practice partner, your partner's achievements are your achievements and the other way around. She said we have to learn to take responsibility for each other," she had replied darkly, probably put off by the fact that neither she nor Harry had ever really mastered Coaxing or any kind of audio magic very well  
  
Ron had to concede that Varlerta's marking system was unusual, but it didn't worry him overly much: Whether at Coaxing or at Strengthening, his practice partner Parvati and he were fairly well on the same level. They had learned quite a few things from each other and were used to working spells together by now. If there was something he didn't know or couldn't do in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Parvati was the first person he asked, and she did the same with him. At first Ron had felt a bit uncomfortable about working so closely with a girl other than Hermione, what's more, a girl he didn't even fancy. Parvati had visibly minded it at first, too; probably she remembered the Yule Ball fiasco as well as her sister Padma. Over the year, however, their practice partnership had developed into just the thing that had been Varlerta's explicit intention: Two students who worked well together in her class due to the fact that their wands had the same core - two students who considered common progress a common goal.  
  
Parvati had taught her revision lesson about Coaxing last week; now it was Ron's turn. For the student-prepared revision section, Varlerta had assigned each student a subject she considered best suitable for them. Hermione had opened the section with a brilliant, though not entirely comprehensible lesson about "Theories of Self-Enhancement - conventional and wandless Defence strategies." Lavender had done something on Meditation and the like, while Seamus had revised means of Strengthening others with them. Each of the students had seemed relatively confident and well-prepared as they stood in front of the class to teach for the first time in their lives.  
  
Ron wondered if he would do just as well tomorrow. He had worked hard to compile the material for his lesson and to bring it into a form that would help the others understand him. Varlerta had found a subject for Ron that should fit him like a glove, namely "Objects, Strength and Willpower." The basic question of the lesson was how to get objects to do a witch's or wizard's will. It was only one of the revision subjects that did not mostly focus on the witches or wizards themselves, but on the inherent traits and structures of Ensouled and non-Ensouled objects they dealt with while doing magic. Ron had to admit he found his subject interesting. He had been forced to revise as well as research several texts which had to do with Coaxing and even Ensouling. Probably he knew more about his subject than even Hermione now; the question was, what would happen when he stood in front of the class? Somehow, he felt it would be a disastrous experience. He had worked hard, but probably not hard enough! His year mates would all look at him and expect him to be very smart and well-informed. Would they laugh at him if he made mistakes, betrayed severe gaps in his knowledge, or started babbling incoherently?  
  
"You shouldn't worry about it too much," Harry said to him over lunch. Of course, Harry didn't have anything to worry about: It would be another two weeks until he would have to get in front of the class to revise his Classical Magical Defence for his fellow year mates. The subject was well chosen for Harry, Ron thought. While he had never gotten the knack for 'soft magic' such as Coaxing, Harry had Duelled successfully with the Dark Lord, something none of his year mates or even his teachers could claim. In winter, Varlerta had practiced simple spells of conventional Defence Magic with the fifth year Gryffindors, and of course, Harry had excelled in them. Ron, of course, was considered an Ensouler, so his subject should come natural to him. Ron himself wasn't so sure about this, though: The Bludger- To-Be still lay around motionlessly at the foot of Ron's four-poster, failing to show any signs of Ensouling in spite of Ron's occasional efforts. The Ensouled pawn was as ungovernable as ever, and Ron had started to wonder if its Ensouling had been anything more than a freak accident.  
  
The next day, Ron packed his notes, his pawn, his and Harry's chess figures, his lifeless Bludger and even a Snitch Angelina had let him borrow. He would have liked to include Varlerta's Ford Anglia in his lesson, because the car would have been a great way to get his fellow students' attention, but Varlerta had thought it too much of a hassle to get Drifter into the classroom. She would bring her old "Morgan la sandbag" as demonstration material, she had told him. If that wasn't boring, he didn't know what was, Ron thought, but he didn't argue.  
  
Then he was standing in front of the class. Varlerta had taken a seat in the back, surrendering the position of the teacher to him completely for this lesson. Of course, she would be taking notes, Ron thought. He shuffled around with his notes for one last time, cleared his throat and began by reading a passage out of a book to them:  
  
"The magic we do is a means to control aspects of the world, to shape reality according to our needs, desires and abilities. While this can be said even of most non-magic action, the dimension of control and manipulation is more obvious in voluntary, purposeful magic." He skipped an irrelevant and wordy passage according to his thin, pencilled marks in the book and continued: "Attempts to control the world can be classified into attempts to manipulate people and objects. Manipulating people can be further classified into attempts to manipulate wizards or Muggles; magical ethics have to be taken into consideration, as many spells used to control people are considered Dark Magic. Manipulating objects is the far more frequent variety of magic; further distinction divides this class into dealing with Ensouled versus controlling lifeless objects."  
  
Ron looked up from his book. Did his year mates still listen, or had he lost them already? The text he had read to them was not written to hold anyone's attention, but it made the basic classifications very clear. Ron saw Hermione nod and take notes; Harry nodded as well to show him he was still listening. He waited until Seamus and Dean had stopped talking - Varlerta was prodding them from behind with her wand; then he told the class in his own words:  
  
"When we deal with people, we know they have their own will. If we use magic to make people - Muggles or wizards - do what they don't want to do, it's called Dark Magic. If we do something to people - something nice like healing them, or something not-so-nice like giving them Jelly Legs - the distinction is not always quite clear. It is uncertain whether someone's legs are part of their free will, or whether bodily parts count as objects in a certain way. Luckily, if we deal with dead and lifeless objects, there is no complicated distinction: They have no will of their own, so they might as well do our will. This means doing magic with them should be very easy. If I spell an object, my spell should succeed very well. However, as we all know, that is not always the case. There is gravity to consider, for example, or the power that makes a lock stay locked if we are not particularly talented for opening them." Here Ron shared a little grin with Hermione, whose Alohomora was legendary. It was nice to see how much attention Hermione paid to him while he was standing in front of the class like a teacher, Ron thought.  
  
He went through some very basic Strength calculations - Hermione had helped him with the very basic Arithmancy he had needed for them - and demonstrated the use of "Morgan la sandbag" once more. Ron reminded the class that most of all, lifeless objects were lazy and change-resistant. Spells such as Levitating, Summoning and Banishing were used against the pull of gravity, while Transfigurating objects meant breaking an object's tie to its fixed form. "That's why Professor McGonagall uses animals in Transformation class so often," Ron said, proud that he had unearthed this particular piece of information. "As living beings, they are not quite as change-resistant as lifeless objects. It's easier to change them into something else then Transform dead objects into other dead objects. Of course, all animals turned into dead things have to be Transformed back after class; such is the international law against "Entrapment of Living Beings in Lifeless Forms."  
  
Students took notes and asked him questions. They took him seriously, and if they asked something he didn't know, he could always forward the request to Professor Varlerta sitting in the back of the room. After all, standing in front of the class wasn't that bad, Ron thought, though he knew that the back of his robes were soaked with sweat. Luckily, no one had to come near him in this lesson.  
  
Ron went on to remind his classmates of what Ensouled objects were, what they were used for and how they worked. He explained how the willpower of an Ensouler went into a suitable object, hopefully, inducing the object to function according to its purpose. Ron went on by showing them the fluttering Snitch which was trapped in a small cage so it could not get away. "Snitches and Bludgers," he said, "do not have to be particularly smart. The Bludgers are taught to be aggressive, while Snitch is taught to take flight. They need to be unpredictable, so they have to have some sort of free will. They are spelled so they won't leave the Quidditch pitch, but they do not have to know any rules. All that is important is that they virtually can't be influenced from the outside. If someone skilled in Coaxing could persuade a Snitch to come his way, there would be a lot of cheating on the pitch. The difficult thing about Ensouling Quidditch balls is to make sure they are impossible to tamper with, but they don't have to be made very smart. Chess figures are another matter altogether."  
  
Ron set up the chess figures and gave them simple directions which resulted in the defeat of one of Harry's pawns. He had planned this particular sequence of moves to demonstrate how the chess figures argued with him a bit, but eventually did his will.  
  
"An Ensouled object 'functioning according to its purpose,'" Ron explained, "that phrase tells us that the amount of free will and of knowledge an Ensouler installs into an object should be adapted to the particular use this kind of object finds in the wizarding world." He saw Hermione frown at this expression. She had recently started objecting against the term 'wizarding world', claiming it should be 'wizarding and witching world.' Ron went on: "Chess figures argue because they are supposed to argue. That's how most of us learn to play chess: They learn from their opponents, and because they listen to their chess figures, especially if the figures are well experienced. Of course, chessmen are also supposed to obey, because otherwise we could hardly play with them." He passed his anarchy pawn around class. His classmates handled the little figure with care; they knew it could get rather testy if treated without respect.  
  
"This little thing hasn't learned the rules of chess, let alone obedience," Ron told the Gryffindors. When preparing his class, he had spend a lot of thought on whether or not he should make his failure to properly Ensoul the pawn the object of a public discussion. He had decided in its favour, because, as Professor Varlerta liked to say, it wasn't the failed attempts that counted, but the lessons one learned through trying. Now she gave him a warm smile across the classroom, encouraging him to say: "We do not know exactly how Ensouling works, or what makes it work properly. That's why I can't do it yet - it's nothing you can learn from a book, or even from somebody else. If someone asks you in an exam how Ensouling works, you can quote me on this."  
  
Hermione was grinning to herself while frantically taking notes. Two seats to her left, Seamus was trying to free his quill from the aggressive clutch of the anarchy pawn. Ron took out the lifeless Bludger.  
  
"Just so you see the difference, here is a Quidditch ball that should be Ensouled, but isn't yet. See how it shows no sign of a will of its own altogether."  
  
With these words he threw the lifeless Bludger at Harry without warning. Of course, Harry with his Quidditch-sharpened reaction time neatly caught the Bludger and passed it back to Ron in the fraction of a second. Ron caught the ball as well, but before he could pass it to Lavender as intended, the Bludger suddenly gained its own momentum, left Ron's hands without being thrown, and speeded in direction of Seamus' face. Both Seamus and Dean dodged the Bludger, which speedily turned around to fly at Parvati. Parvati screamed, but threw herself to the floor before she was hit. The Bludger zoomed around the classroom a bit, causing a fair share of disorder, but before it could harm anyone, Harry, always the friend to be counted on, jumped on it and secured it by sitting on it.  
  
Ron could hardly find enough breath to say anything at all. He saw Varlerta crawl out from under the table where a vicious Bludger attack had driven her. The teacher wiped her hair out of her face and took a few deep breaths. Then, obviously thinking Ron had planned the whole thing, she gave him two thumbs up. "A little dangerous, I concede, but a truly impressive demonstration, Ron," she told him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After she had heard what had happened, Professor McGonagall owled Mr. Pigmalgion immediately. Of course, the Ensouling expert had a busy schedule; it might be some time until he would have a chance to come to Hogwarts and scrutinise the Ensouled Bludger. For now, Angelina agreed to use the Bludger in Quidditch practice. The ball performed its fierce task admirably; Fred and George found nothing wrong with it altogether and thought keeping the ball off their team-mates an adequate effort. However, when Ron asked them about the Bludger after practice, he had the impression that his brothers would not meet his eyes. There was something the twins weren't telling him, he was quite sure about it.  
  
Harry was adamant that they should visit Sirius that night and tell him about the extraordinary event. Hermione joined her two friends on this occasion, shedding her misgivings about missing out on a single hour of revision for once. The three went up to the Spellies' Lab expecting to find Sirius, Remus and Varlerta share a Butterbeer or two, something that seemed to happen a lot these days. With the three adults, Ron, Harry and Hermione found Ginny huddled on a stool on the side, a cup of steaming herbal tea cradled in her hands. Ginny's eyes were bloodshot and looked huge in her pale face. Ron's conscience gave a pang: She was lonely, he knew. None of the fourth year girls seemed to be a true friend for the only female Weasley child. Overburdened with revision and schoolwork, Ron, Harry and Hermione had recently neglected her. They had failed her when she needed them, it seemed. No wonder she was looking for people to spend her time with, even if that meant being the little Miss Tag-Along of a group of adults, and, worse, teachers.  
  
Ron knew what had happened a couple of weeks ago, and he didn't approve at all of his little sister taking part in such dangerous outings. His mother had told him to look after Ginny, but Ginny seemed quite a handful to look after - first Tom Riddle's diary, now Varlerta, the drum set and a lethal fight with ten grown Death Eaters, not to mention her tendency to be unhappily in love. What would his hazard-attracting sister do next, Ron wondered. Neither Ginny nor Varlerta had so far told Molly Weasley about the events of that night; Ginny had implored Ron to keep his mouth shut, even in the presence of Fred and George, who were kept in the dark as well. Now Ron was Ginny's accomplice in this matter, likely to be skinned alive alongside of her once matters came to his mother's ears.  
  
Lupin drew up chairs for the three revision-weary fifth years. "Great that you came," he remarked encouragingly. "Actually I would have asked Hermione to come over and help me with some Arithmancy problems tomorrow if you hadn't come over tonight."  
  
"Sure, any time," Hermione replied, rubbing her cheeks with both hands. Ron noticed there were some dark shades under her eyes. "Where's the problem?" the girl asked when Lupin fetched his notes from the desk.  
  
"It's about your correction of...." Lupin shuffled through the stack of dog- eared parchments "formula 22b. I know it ties in with Strength calculation 6, but I can't quite make sense of it." Lupin shrugged to acknowledge the fact that he had to ask the assistance of a fifteen-year-old girl for an Arithmantic problem.  
  
Hermione sighed and took the piece of parchment Lupin handed her. "Can't it wait till tomorrow?" Varlerta complained. "Don't you see our valid OWL candidates are practically falling off their chairs with fatigue?"  
  
"You think it will be better tomorrow?" Lupin asked with an apologetic grin. Then he turned to Hermione. "You will tell me if it's too much for you, will you?"  
  
Ron knew that Hermione was likely to do no such thing, but did not comment when his friend said: "Of course. But I think I already know where the problem lies. You're unsure about this equation?" She pointed.  
  
Lupin looked over her shoulder and nodded. "I'm not sure where this went." He pointed at some particular point in what Ron identified as a formula completely devoid of sense - at least to him it was.  
  
"See equation 22a?" Hermione turned back a page in the loose pile of parchments. "This equals this, so I replaced it. See?" She pointed, then leaved forwards two pages. "Here this appears in Strength calculation 6. It's all correct." Hermione's look of 'I told you so' was something Ron knew well; it was nice to see her bestow it on someone else for a change.  
  
Lupin stared at the parchment for a moment, then comprehension dawned in his eyes. "Hey, that's right!" he exclaimed and clapped a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Now I understand. You know what? You're well on your way to enlighten this acolyte in your noble art. Let's work together for another year, and I'll feel like I'd never failed this subject. I wish I had had you for a teacher in my days."  
  
Ron saw Hermione turn her face downwards so that her hair concealed her blush, something she did at times. Lupin meanwhile scribbled some notes on the margin of the parchment. He had taken on the duty of putting Hermione's changed formulas into practice, confident that it would help their ongoing search for the much-needed counter curse.  
  
Sirius had meanwhile brought a few more bottles of Butterbeer. "What brings you three here tonight, then?" he asked the three fifth-years. Harry and Hermione let Ron talk first. "As Professor Varlerta may have told you already, I - I think I Ensouled my Bludger," he stammered. All faces in the round lit up. Sirius and Remus called out in surprise and slapped him on the shoulder. Varlerta only nodded; obviously, she had left it to Ron to tell Sirius about the event himself. Ginny gave her brother a broad grin. Of course, she already knew about it, but Ron still liked to see that his sister cared about whether or not he displayed any great powers.  
  
"Do you have any idea what triggered the sudden Ensoulment in my class?" Varlerta asked.  
  
Ron shook his head. "Beats me," he replied. "I threw the thing around at least thirty or forty times before. Suddenly the thing just exploded into motion. I found it rather scary, actually."  
  
Varlerta grinned. "So did I." She turned to Lupin, Sirius and Ginny. "I jumped under the table. You should have seen it. I'm sure you would have had a good laugh."  
  
"Never been one for Quidditch, have you?" Sirius teased her good-naturedly.  
  
"Never," Varlerta replied with conviction.  
  
When Hermione yawned ear splittingly, Lupin suggested that it was time for the students to go to bed. Rubbing her eyes, Varlerta announced that she would do the same, as she would have to rise as early as they.  
  
On their way down the stairs, Hermione drew Harry into a conversation about the likeliness of Hawk Potion coming up in the Potions OWL exam. Ron turned his attention away from them, feeling he would have to scream if he heard the OWLs mentioned once more that day. Instead, he focussed on a quiet conversation Varlerta and Ginny were having right behind the three.  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor Varlerta, but it's true," Ginny almost whispered. "He was awake when I came to get him that night, all dressed and ready to go. He did not seem surprised or shocked, just took his case and went with me. He had his case readily packed with loads of useful potions, too, as if he was waiting for something like that to happen."  
  
"We all know that Snape usually stays up half the night, and that he likes to be prepared for emergencies. Your observances may not be anything more than a coincidence," Varlerta murmured. "It doesn't make sense to think he betrayed us to the Death Eaters. Sirius says he might just have wanted to show off, but that's a hell of a dangerous - excuse me, Ron, can I help you with anything?"  
  
For her last words she exchanged her subdued tone for a far louder and harder one. Ron turned to her. "It's a free country," he retorted lamely, though he was embarrassed for being caught eavesdropping.  
  
Varlerta snorted. "Sure, any time. Ron, I don't know how much you overheard, but this little controversy is NOT to be discussed with your classmates. Do you understand me?"  
  
By now Harry and Hermione had noticed there was a bit of disagreement behind them. "Sure, Professor Varlerta," Ron answered, even though he knew he would tell Harry and Hermione about it as soon as he would get the chance. Luckily, they had just arrived at the landing where the Gryffindor students would have to go one way and Varlerta had to go another. Before leaving them, Varlerta gave Ron a slightly threatening look. "Sleep well, you four," she said to them and descended the stairs that led down to the Entrance Hall.  
  
Ginny gave Ron another reproachful look, then started down the corridor. Hermione raised her eyebrows in a questioning way. "Tell you later," Ron mouthed.  
  
Hermione and Harry nodded. "Pas devant...." sophisticated Hermione mouthed back and turned her eyes in Ginny's direction, who was dawdling to make sure the other three students caught up with her.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The next afternoon, while Ron, Hermione and Harry were sitting in the Common Room, brooding over a lengthy essay for Transfiguration, Fred and George approached them. They looked more subdued than normally and actually managed to attract the attention of the three working students in a polite way instead of just butting in.  
  
"Harry, Ron, could we have a word?" Fred asked.  
  
"In privacy?" George added, casting Hermione a sidelong glance.  
  
Hermione frowned. "It's okay, why don't you just tell me to get lost for your convenience? I just love to get up and find a new chair in the middle of an essay just because I'm not trustworthy," she said with a touch of sarcasm. She gathered up her school things and left for another table.  
  
George sighed. "Add another point to our score for offending her," he murmured. "Er, actually we came for...." He cast a helpless glance at Fred.  
  
"What we wanted to say was...." Fred started, but did not continue his sentence either.  
  
Ron felt his heart sink. His twin brothers were rarely lost for words. Quidditch, he thought. They have voted in secrecy to kick me out of the team, or maybe to kick out Harry and me?  
  
"Actually we came here to apologise to you two," George suddenly said.  
  
Apologise? Fred and George, apologise for anything at all? This was becoming more and more mysterious.  
  
"We knew it was morally despicable not to tell you about it, but we wanted to finish our experiments first," Fred added with downcast eyes, a truly odd sight.  
  
"Maybe you could make allowance for the zeal of two scientists," George suggested offhandedly.  
  
"What experiments? What didn't you tell us? I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry replied weakly. He looked as confused as Ron.  
  
"What we are trying to tell you," said George - "even though we'd rather not," added Fred - "in short, what we now recognise as our duty to tell you is that you two can only Ensoul stuff in cooperation," finished George.  
  
"What?" said Harry with an air of someone who was still trying to make sense of the words he had heard.  
  
"In cooperation? I don't think I get it," Ron replied. His brothers shared a look. Then Fred explained airily:  
  
"We don't know why it is that way, but according to our experiments, an object has to pass into both of your hands to receive Ensouling. We ran a number of tests on you two and found out that the best way to achieve a thorough and adequate Ensoulment is to leave the object in question in Ron's hands for a while. Afterwards we let Harry handle it very briefly so the object can receive his personal spark of energy. Then we let Ron finish the Ensouling process with a final touch. Of course, objects have to be prepared for Ensoulment beforehand, for example by experts like us."  
  
"I thank fate for small blessings," George added dryly. "If you two Ensouled every normal object that had been touched by both of you, the whole castle would be crawling and bristling with Ensouled objects. A truly horrible thought, if you take a moment to consider it."  
  
Recalling the specific incidents, Ron realised that both the Bludger and the test pawn had accidentally been touched by both Harry and Ron in the order that Fred had described. He recovered mastery of his language before Harry did. "You experimented on us? You ran tests? Why?"  
  
"The joke shop," Fred replied with a shrug. "How else do you think we could have produced the Wheeze Hand-Eating Stockings?"  
  
Ron suddenly remembered his twin brothers' truly annoying Christmas surprise, the long stockings that punished you for grabbing your presents by trying to swallow you whole. Now that he thought about it, these stockings could never have been as ferocious as they were if they hadn't been Ensouled. How could he have missed that? Of course, the idea had never crossed his mind; he just accepted that Fred and George had a talent for inventing truly impossible things.  
  
"You mean we had a hand in producing them?" Harry asked, looking curious rather than offended.  
  
"Er, a foot, rather," George corrected. "Our method of production was a stroke of genius, actually. It took a while for us to perfect it. First we magically prepared the stockings for Ensouling and put a Disguise charm on them so they would look like ordinary socks. Then we smuggled them into Ron's sock drawer and waited until he had worn them two or three times."  
  
"Then we took them out and gave them a good wash," Fred threw in.  
  
"Yes, that was rather necessary," George conceded. "Afterwards we did some more magic on them and put them in Harry's sock drawer. We usually disguised them as mismatched socks then, because we've found out that the Ensoulment works best if Harry only touches the objects briefly, but does not wear them. Usually, he just stuffed the socks back into the drawer when he found out they were mismatched, which suited our purpose just fine. Then we repeated the same procedure once more with Ron, and bang, there were our Ensouled stockings."  
  
"Well, we still had to take off the Disguise charm before they were marketable," Fred added.  
  
Ron felt his head swim. "How in the world did you get such ideas?" he asked his twin brothers. "I mean, how did you know this would work?"  
  
"We didn't," Fred grinned. "When you came to the Burrow last summer, Harry, we realised there were some strange things going on. You two must have Ensouled a couple of objects without meaning to - a fake wand, a quill and a self-stirring sauce pot. This awakened our curiosity."  
  
"The sauce pot is still driving mum nuts, I think," George added as an afterthought.  
  
"The quill gave us the idea for the Wheeze Auto-Misspell Quill we put in some of your Wheezebags last summer," Fred continued. "We didn't know why it worked, we just knew that our magic didn't work without you two, so we kept experimenting. It's all down to systematic and meticulous empirical research, you know - the true and honest graft of the scientist. Of course we could be sure that Harry had to have something to do with it, because we knew that you haven't been Ensouling stuff all your life, Ron, so...."  
  
"Then came the business with the car, and the Ensouling expert and everything, so at last we knew what we were dealing with," George interrupted his brother. "We actually humbled ourselves to the extent of doing some background reading, which tells you a lot about how much this project meant to us. A few tests confirmed our suspicion that Ensouling is something both of you do together, though we have no idea why that is so. Of course, we wondered whether we should tell you what we knew...."  
  
"..but the temptation was too high for us." Fred continued with a smile which betrayed confidence that Harry and Ron would understand. "The stockings turned out so well that we decided that we'd do another project, one more little thing before George and I leave this school forever and you two will be out of our reach. However, we came to formally apologise for keeping you two in the dark about your talents until now. We had our reasons, but admit that it wasn't the polite thing to do."  
  
"No problem," Ron replied without conviction.  
  
"A new project?" Harry's eyes lit up. "What are you making?"  
  
"Entrepreneurs' secret, I'm afraid," Fred replied haughtily. "I can't tell you yet, but I assure you that you will recognise it as the work of our hands once you lay your eyes on it."  
  
"The work of all of our hands," George added a little more thoughtfully.  
  
"That's right! I want a share of your profits for my work!" Finally, Ron had recovered his speech.  
  
"We will assign an adequate share of our stocks to both of you when we go on the market," George assured him businesslike. "Liquidating some of our limited capital to pay you two would be economically unwise at the moment."  
  
Harry nodded. "That's fine, I don't want any money. Just show me how you do it - or rather, how we do it!"  
  
Ron wouldn't have minded to receive a bit of money on the spot, but the news was so exciting that he didn't argue, so he shrugged in semi- agreement. "Shouldn't you two have been studying for your NEWTs in the time you spent on your joke projects and experiments?" he asked to get back at his elder brothers. He didn't really appreciate being a test person in their experiments and would have liked to be enlightened on the matter, not to mention asked, before they used him as a link in their production chain.  
  
"Oh, that," Fred wiped Ron's reproach away with a shake of his hand. "It's enough if we get any at all just so it doesn't look too bad to mum. If you're self-employed, nobody asks about your school marks anymore."  
  
Ron suddenly felt envy towards his elder brothers. They knew exactly what they wanted to do in life and had known it for years, while he had no idea what kind of profession he should choose and where his special talents lay. Of course, now he knew he was an Ensouler, but he wasn't a proper one: For some reasons Fred and George did not know, he needed Harry's 'spark of energy' to complete his work. Somehow, he wouldn't have minded to own his special talent all by himself, not to have to share it with his best friend.  
  
Harry grinned at Ron. "I think it's excellent," he said happily. "Think of all the stuff we'll be able to do with that. Let's tell Hermione at once - and let's go and tell Professor McGonagall, and owl Mr. Pigmalgion tonight. They'll be excited, and I'm sure they'll get us cool things on which we can test our Ensouling method!"  
  
"Er ... do you think there is any necessity to mention our names to Professor McGonagall in connection with this affair?" Fred asked with a trace of apprehension in his voice.  
  
"Surely there is no reason for that," George said persuasively.  
  
Ron swallowed a trace of disappointment, then he smiled back at Harry. "Yeah, let's go and tell them. We could ask Mr. Pigmalgion to send us a couple of Quidditch balls. We'll make the most ferocious Bludgers in the world!" 


	23. Hermione

23 - Hermione  
  
Hermione stepped out in the sunlight-flooded Hogwarts grounds in a daze. It was over. For better or worse, she had done it. After glancing briefly to the right and to the left to see that no one was watching her in particular, she let herself topple backwards on the fragrant grass, inhaling a promise of summer. Her strained back welcomed the awkward thud as she hit the ground. It's over, we're done, she told herself over and over again. I've taken my last OWL exam. Finally it was time to relax!  
  
She resisted the urge to sit up and see whether Harry and Ron were coming out into the grounds, too. The two of them had still been waiting to take their Divination exams when she had finished her rune translation. She remembered their pale faces, their 'do not approach us now, Hermione!'- looks. Probably they had been making a last-minute effort to come up with a few catastrophes that still had a sense of novelty to them. Involuntarily, Hermione grinned - that would prove to be a tough job after three years of predicting the worst several times a week. Only yesterday evening, the two had been seen brooding over their Tarot cards in the Common Room, trying to invent sinister meanings for the overflowing happiness of the Ace and the Ten of Cups. Of course, the card 'The Lovers' had not caused them much trouble in that way. Some of the less pleasurable meanings of that card, most of them suggested by Ron, had convinced Hermione to go back to her runes immediately.  
  
OWLs, Hermione thought. Not underage anymore. I'll be allowed to do magic at home. Now I can actually show Mum and Dad how I turn teacups into mice. Won't that be fun... Smiling wryly, she buried her fingers in the moist grass and pulled to give her stiff shoulders a bit of a stretch. Yes, Mum and Dad. Another school year was almost gone, and she would see them soon. A few more days at Hogwarts while the teachers corrected (and marked!) hundreds of essays, a few days of slow-paced lessons no one except Snape took completely seriously anymore, then the Hogwarts Express, and finally an endless, careless holiday at the Cote d'Azur. Well, not quite careless - Hermione realised those days were over when she could return to the Muggle world and pretend she was like them. Half of her mind would stay at Hogwarts, with all the new things she had learned this year, with the people she cared for, but also with the troubles of the witching and wizarding world. As much as she was looking forward to seeing her parents, she would certainly like to be invited to the Burrow as soon as possible. Not going there last summer had been a mistake. Thinking of Victor Krum now almost embarrassed her, although she had faithfully answered a total of eight letters over the year. What she really wanted was to spend the summer with Harry, Ron and Ginny - after seeing her parents for some time, of course.  
  
Finally, Ron and Harry came trotting down the stairs that led down from the front door of Hogwarts. Hermione waved to them, then watched her two friends cut across the lawn towards her. Both were a bit pale, she noticed, and worries crept up her spine. Please, not another one of these ridiculous Trelawney predictions, she thought. Then again, the prediction the strange, insect-like teacher had made two years ago had only come too true.  
  
"Prefect Hermione, you are not supposed to be out in the grounds all by yourself, but only in a group of four," Ron said with reproachful pomp.  
  
"The same goes for the two of you," Hermione replied, slightly embarrassed that she had all but forgotten about safety matters, but also relieved to hear Ron joking. Obviously, nothing really bad had happened.  
  
"C'mon, they wouldn't attack the castle on the last day of the OWLs of all days, right?" Harry said and threw himself into the grass. "Anyway, if Sirius and Lupin are right, we are safer by ourselves than in a large group, at least as long as they are trying to get us with Icy Fingers."  
  
"Remember the dark fate that awaits thee, Harry," Ron mumbled, sat down and took a bag of Every Flavour Beans out of his robes' pocket. "Want one?" he asked. "Flavour of arsenic, especially for you, Harry."  
  
Harry chose a dangerous-looking green bean; Hermione declined. "So how was your Divination exam?" she asked the two.  
  
"Don't ask," Ron said and looked away from her.  
  
"Because you two think you failed it, or because we are doomed?" Hermione tried hard to take matters lightly.  
  
"Maybe both," said Harry with a shrug. "Judging from the cards, we are really doomed, but of course, the only one who will die is yours truly, according to the old fraud."  
  
"That was a set of cards, believe me!" Ron said with a slight quiver in his voice which might or might not have been authentic, "The World in the central position, upside down, crossed by the Tower, of all things."  
  
Harry rubbed his chin with two fingers and recalled: "The Nine of Cups in the position of the past, but- she really loved this - the stupid old Five of Cups in the position of the future. Then on the resource position, the blasted Emperor, inverted, and - imagine - Death in the position of the possible outcome. Whoever shuffled these cards should develop a more subtle kind of humour."  
  
Hermione tried to point out that she didn't know a thing about Tarot cards, and that their names meant nothing to her, but she could not seem to get a word in sideways.  
  
"You shuffled the cards," Ron reminded him. "And of course, the old fraud always says that Death doesn't have to mean death, you know -"  
  
"Except for when it does," Harry continued, mocking Trelawney's misty voice.  
  
"Yes, of course. And then -" Ron continued, jabbing a finger into Hermione's direction, "and then there was the inverted Fool in the position of the self, the Hanged Man in the position of the outer view - "  
  
"- inverted," Harry added.  
  
"Oh, yes, I forgot. He looks really dumb when he is hanging right side up, if you know what I mean," Ron replied. "Anyways, we had the Ten of Swords in the hopes and fear spot -"  
  
"And the Wheel of Fortune in the spot for the outcome," Harry completed with a heavy sigh. "Actually, I thought they were the perfect cards for the exam. I predicted that we will lose the war against Voldemort, and Ron predicted the end of the world as she required an alternative reading of him, but of course, that wasn't sinister enough for the old cow. So I tried to make amends by predicting my own death, but she said any corrections I was making would not help my mark at all anymore." Angrily, Harry slapped the grass with his palm. Ron grinned his famous Weasley-grin, the one that could made him look very much like Fred and George all of a sudden.  
  
"That's not funny at all," Hermione chided.  
  
"Oh, who would want to get an OWL in Divination anyway?" Ron replied cheekily. "It's not like I'm planning to keep it on next year."  
  
"I mean the prediction," Hermione replied impatiently. "I mean saying that we will lose the war with Voldemort and that the end of the world will come."  
  
"C'mon, Hermione - since when do you think the end of the world is more important than a failed exam? You don't believe in Divination anyways," Ron commented, his mouth full of Every Flavour Beans. The thought that he was reckless enough to eat more than one at a time appalled Hermione, as always.  
  
"Speaking of the end of the world - there is another order meeting tonight," Harry said and let himself sink backwards until he lay flat on his back.  
  
Ron groaned. "Tonight? Don't these people have any sense of decency whatsoever? We should really ask them to postpone it if they want us to attend!"  
  
"Ron!" Hermione could hardly believe she had heard him correctly. "You can't possibly mean that! They are all really important people who are planning really important things. It's an honour for us to attend!" But when she thought of the revision marathon the three had just put behind them, as well as of the stupefying boredom the last four order meetings had evoked in her, she had to secretly admit that Ron had a point there.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As in the last meetings in Dumbledore's circular office, the air was stuffy, breathed by too many witches and wizards. Participants sat on chairs, some taking notes, some knitting; some were discussing matters with vigour and zeal, while others rather looked like they just hung in there, yawning and rubbing their eyes. It was just another order meeting; the exceptional assembly of witches and wizards was turning into normality.  
  
One of the more exciting topics was the report of the dragon tamers, for the first time given by a nervous-looking Vanessa Craydon. Their dragons, she said, would be able to carry riders into battle with the Death Eaters; they were trained to pursue and to capture, though she could not tell them any more details, because... She gave Dumbledore a meaningful look. Probably she was hinting at the fact that it might not be safe to mention certain things in this order: The leak, if there was one, had still not been found. The enthusiasm the young dragon tamer had for her work could not be overlooked, however. She obviously loved the creatures she was working with. Every time she uttered the word 'dragon', Hagrid sighed heavily. Vanessa herself blushed every time she mentioned Charlie Weasley, who had remained in Romania, Hermione realised.  
  
Of course, Hagrid would have sighed much louder if it hadn't been for Madame Maxime. For the first time since they met as an order, the half- giant headmistress of Beauxbatons was attending a meeting. In her purring accent, she told them news of the giants she had conversed with. Four of their tribes had elected a common war chief, an unparalleled occurrence in the history of the ever-fighting giants, it seemed. They were ready for the fight, she said, but there was one little problem: They wanted more bribes. Sadly the enormous woman shook her head; they would follow whoever paid the most, so it was necessary that the order outbid the Death Eaters. She had successfully raised some funds in France for the bribes paid so far, but now she requested financial help from Britain.  
  
Money, Steven Ricket replied in his BBC English, was in short supply. There had been a few generous donations made to the order, but they were needed for such things as international communication and ...  
  
Penthesilea Finnegan interrupted him. International communication would not have to cost a knut if they used the international League network, she said impatiently. It seemed like the two of them had had this discussion before. Ricket's evasive answer implied that he did not find the League completely trustworthy.  
  
"Oh, Steven, can't you see that unless you put a bit of trust in others, for example the League, these meetings are completely useless? We are offering this, without obligations, without asking anything in return, just because we want to contribute whatever we can. Even if we disagree on a thing or two, would you say that international contacts are tainted just because they are supported by the League owling system?"  
  
"Constant vigilance!" Moody growled in the background.  
  
"Be that as it may, but our financial situation may improve significantly within the next couple of weeks," Bill Weasley interrupted. "We've had some more negotiation with the Gringotts goblins, and while it certainly doesn't look like we've got the whole goblin population behind us, I've found some daredevil goblin investors. They said that the project 'Future without You- Know-Who Inc.' was worth a galleon or two to them. Of course, it may very well be that rather than buying owl treats with it, we need this money for bribing the giants. It may also be used to support those who had to drop out of their jobs to do guard duty at Azkaban."  
  
"Guard duty at Azkaban - I can't believe you people haven't dropped that silly stunt by now!" Moody complained. "What we need there is a permanent squad of Aurors trained to kill, as well as about fifty barrels of Theraka to get rid of the Dementors if we need to."  
  
"That's impossible, as you well know," Snape said icily.  
  
Moody gave Snape one of his annihilating 'a Death Eater that walked free'- looks, then went on to complain in the general direction of Dumbledore.  
  
"It disgusts me that we are discussing such petty-minded affairs of bureaucracy here instead preparing for the real fight, Albus. What we need is curse- and combat-training for the young -" with a gesture of his hand, he included Harry, Ron and Hermione as well as Ginny and Neville, "organised troops to fight the Death Eaters, and an international communication system that does not depend on an organisation which is even more chaotic than this order." This was directed at Penthesilea Finnegan. "We also need a decent ring of spies -" another decidedly condescending look into Snape's direction, "as well as an effective protection at what you euphemistically call the 'leak' in this order." Once more Moody turned to Dumbledore.  
  
"By the way, Albus," he said, "could you please tell my why Sirius Black is standing there by the door, covered with an Invisibility Cloak? This is the kind of behaviour which looks a trifle suspicious in the meeting of a secret order, if you ask me!"  
  
Hermione's gaze followed Moody's stare, waiting in vain for him to mention vigilance. When Sirius' head and shoulders appeared, she could hardly believe it. How could he be so stupid to come here? He had to know that it was not safe for him to attend order meetings, and that the concealing powers of a Demiguise hair Cloak could be penetrated by means of Moody's magical eyes, just to mention one example. Sirius took off the cloak and hung it over one arm.  
  
"I am sorry to have disregarded your advice of avoiding these meetings, Albus," he addressed the headmaster. "You may think me crazy, but I do want to know how you are proceeding in identifying the traitor in our midst. The question is of particular significance to me, as you may know." Sirius took a hesitating step forward, then pointed a finger at Hogwarts' Potions Master. His eyes darkened; his voice was steady and calm.  
  
"You are the traitor, Snape! Evidence against you is piling up, and if nobody in this circle has the guts to publicly accuse you, I consider it my duty to speak up."  
  
Sirius' words caused a commotion in the headmaster's office. Hermione saw witches and wizards murmur among themselves; some shook their heads, some nodded vigorously. She also noticed that while Professor Varlerta had gestured for Sirius to be quiet while he spoke, she now turned to Snape, who looked haughty and unmoved. "Constant vigilance," Moody murmured thoughtfully. Dumbledore rose from his seat and beckoned to Sirius to come nearer.  
  
"I wish you had come to me with your accusations instead of voicing them in this circle, but maybe this is the way things have to be. Please sit with us, Sirius, and bring forth your evidence. Mistrust is poison in the veins of this order and slander a serious crime among those who must depend on each other. Your evidence, however, will be heard and judged here. I only ask that if the wizard you accuse can prove his innocence, you will apologise here and on the spot."  
  
"That is only fair," Sirius said with a slight bow of his head towards the venerable old headmaster, disregarding Snape altogether.  
  
Hermione watched Harry and Ron watch Snape eagerly. She knew that in spite of all contrary evidence, the two of them were still hoping that one day, Snape would be proven a traitor. From her point of view, this hope didn't make sense. Of course she didn't like Snape, but if there was a choice of having Snape on their side or having Snape as an opponent, she would always opt for the first, she thought as she saw the hook-nosed teacher sneer derisively at his accuser. Could the Potions Master be the traitor they were looking for - the one who had not only betrayed Sirius to the Daily Prophet and vandalised the books the Spellsearchers needed so urgently, but, according to Ron, had betrayed Varlerta to the Death Eaters? If Snape was indeed guilty of this, Dumbledore would make sure he didn't get another chance to harm anyone, Hermione thought as the murmurs died down so Sirius could state his case.  
  
"We are looking for an individual who notified a Daily Prophet photographer where he could take a picture of me," Sirius said coolly. "This person must have known rather exactly when I'd go looking for the Figgs in Privet Drive, which limits the circle of possibilities to someone closely connected to Dumbledore." Professor McGonagall tried to object, but Sirius raised his hand, gesturing that he wanted to finish his contribution first. "I do realise that this occurrence might have been the result of a very inconvenient accident, but as I said, the evidence is accumulating," he said in her direction. "Then there is the problem with the vandalised books. Snape had the motive and opportunity to do that, because I asked him to get books for our efforts to find a counter curse for Icy Fingers."  
  
Murmurs rose again. Hermione realised that Sirius was not acting very wisely now; he was telling the order members of a Spellsearching project which Dumbledore had kept secret for more than half a year. Of course, if Snape was indeed found to be the traitor they were looking for, it was not too likely that there was a second traitor in their midst. If they found the guilty person tonight, Hermione thought, trust might be regained; order members could again talk openly of their plans and project and re-establish the much-needed open communication within the order. If Snape was the traitor, Sirius' blunder would not matter. Sirius was bound to know this; that was why he had come forward in this fashion, she thought.  
  
"Snape and I have always been enemies," Sirius said with feeling. "When he almost captured me two years ago, he did his best to have me subjected to a Dementor's kiss. He had good reasons to doubt that I was guilty of the crime I was accused, but that didn't matter to him. It is not hard for me to believe that he still wants me dead, and that he tries to hinder my success in Spellsearching even if that means endangering all of us."  
  
Sirius voice filled the room although he did not raise it. All eyes were on the escaped convict whom they had believed guilty of vile crimes not long ago. Hermione saw a great sadness in Dumbledore's face; Varlerta was pale as death. The other teachers stared at Sirius; Flitwick trembled, Sprout shook her head in disbelief, and Quibster's face was ashen. Only Snape, whom these accusations concerned most, did not show any kind of reaction at all.  
  
"The last straw for me is my conviction that Snape betrayed Professor Varlerta, Ginny and Neville to the Death Eaters," Sirius continued. "His personal hatred against me is bad enough, but we should draw the line at someone who consorts with the enemy - even if only for a show-off."  
  
"A show-off?" Snape said in a choked voice. At last his composure seemed to dwindle; Hermione could see his hands tremble.  
  
"I don't want to think you really wanted Professor Varlerta to permanently fall into the hands of the enemy," Sirius replied. "You were too well- prepared for the rescue party; if you hadn't wanted us to defeat your fellow Death Eaters, we would not have come out alive. How you can pull off such a dangerous stunt or what is really on your double agent's agenda is a mystery to me. It is a fact that somebody must have betrayed her, because again, the Death Eaters were at the right place at the right time and knew exactly who to expect. Also you knew where to look for the Death Eaters; you knew them by name. My guess is that you planned this thing well ahead of time, and if others got killed, for example me or one of the kids, you wouldn't have minded it."  
  
"That fight stood on the edge of a knife, Black," Snape said in a dangerously soft voice. "As much as I hate to admit it, you saved my life there, and I saved yours, but easily we might both have been killed. Are you really suggesting that I planned that kind of a botched job?"  
  
Hermione noticed bewildered faces all around the room. She realised that most of them did not know the story Ginny had related to Ron, Harry and her several weeks ago. This conversation must be confusing to those who do not know what happened, she thought as she saw frowns and furrowed brows everywhere.  
  
"Mr. Black, please listen to reason," Varlerta said, her face pleading. "As much as some of your evidence seems to make sense, there is something missing, something essential: the motive. Tell me, why should Professor Snape do such a thing?"  
  
"As I said, the only explanation I have to offer for that last treachery is that he wanted to show off, to appear a big hero," Sirius replied, but with less confidence than before.  
  
"To whom, I wonder?" Varlerta sounded sceptical; she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "It isn't like anyone broadcasted information about how you four saved my life that night - before you did, that is. Who could he have wanted to impress?"  
  
Sirius gave her a meaningful look to which she replied with a snort. "Please stop insinuating such things," she said. "Professor Snape and I haven't even been exchanging greetings when we met recently."  
  
"If you two are finished with slandering me, maybe we could return to discussing what you call 'evidence,'" Snape hissed, casting a truly hateful glance at Varlerta. Then he turned to Sirius. "You've assembled a neat string of unconnected events to use against me, it seems. If this order hadn't decided that whatever skills you may have might still be useful for us, I would challenge you to a duel for your slander right now, and believe me, you wouldn't come out unscathed. As it is, I am forced to tolerate yet another stain on my honour for the sake of our common cause." The last words were directed at Dumbledore, betraying a deep bitterness.  
  
"Sirius, Severus, please." Dumbledore rose. It scared Hermione to see him look so ancient and tired. The headmaster's chest heaved with a deep and sorrowful sigh. "How did mistrust manage to bloom so fatally in our order?" he asked. "The thought that any of you here might have betrayed members of any of us, whether to the Daily Prophet or to the Death Eaters, is unbearable. All of you are dear to me; all of you are chosen to be part of this order because you have earned your place in it. Yet it becomes more and more obvious that there is one among us who has broken the trust I placed in him."  
  
From the row of the teachers, a single wizard rose: Professor Quibster. "What you say is true, Albus, and I am sorry about it," he said. "It has come to the point where I must reveal what I have done, for I am your traitor."  
  
For a moment, had somebody dropped a pin in Dumbledore's office, it would have sounded like an explosion in the silence. Then a commotion broke loose. Witches and wizards shouted, screamed or banged their hands on the table. Hermione stared at the smallish, inconspicuous middle-aged wizard who had disclosed such unbelievable information to them. The Muggle studies teacher of Hogwarts was ordinary to the extent of being almost invisible. He is too boring to be a traitor, she thought.  
  
Gerold Hawks and one of his fellow Aurors grabbed Quibster roughly by both arms and almost pulled him off his feet. Dumbledore raised his hand. "Leave him," he said very quietly. The two Aurors obeyed at once. When Quibster had both feet on the ground again, Dumbledore addressed him gravely: "Prometheus, what have you got to say for yourself?"  
  
"Albus, I am sorry for the trouble and the disappointment I am causing you, and I will accept whatever punishment is found for me without complaining. However, I assure you there are reasons for my action. I implore you to hear me out," Quibster said and adjusted his grey moustache which had become ruffled in the brief struggle. When Dumbledore nodded, Quibster addressed the whole of the order.  
  
"Friends, for as such I considered most of you for a long time, please lend me your ears for a moment. If my treachery, which I regret, has the effect of you giving my words some consideration, it has not been done in vain. I speak here on behalf of the organisation to which I owe more loyalty than even to you, Albus - the 'League for Magic and Non-magic Cooperation.' Many brave wizards and witches who will fight against the Dark Lord until their last breath are members of this organisation. While here at Hogwarts, the policy is to hide behind thick walls and hope the Dark Lord makes a mistake, this is not the way of the League. We fight the Dark Lord, with violence if we must, because we know that just playing for time will not work with Him Who Must Not Be Named."  
  
A strange energy seemed to radiate from the small, insignificant-looking wizard. Hermione was fascinated and repulsed at the same time: Here was the wizard who claimed to be responsible for the vile treachery that had caused them so much trouble all this time, but apparently, he had his motives too - motives which seemed not to be mere selfishness or cowardice.  
  
"Out there," Quibster said, "are League members and their families, threatened to be murdered by Death Eaters every day. The total killing rate of League members has gone up to sixteen adults and nine children, more than half of them in Britain. Order members have told me they would like to help me protect them, but whenever I took anyone up on the offer, they didn't remember making it. In Hogwarts persecuted League members are not welcome, as you made clear to me months ago, Albus. The Ministry does not care about solving these brutal murders, because that would mean admitting that He Who Must Not Be Named is on the rise again. By tipping off a photographer of the Daily Prophet, I had hoped that once Albus' golden boy, Sirius, was framed for the murders, Dumbledore would move heaven and earth to clear the matter. I was mistaken. All he did was have him fetched here so he could be protected at Hogwarts. This school has become a fortress, impenetrable not only to the enemy, but also to those who might ask for shelter. The safer we feel here, the less we think of the refugees whose lives are in danger. This is why I did not want Sirius Black to find a counter curse for Icy Fingers: It is all of us, Muggles and wizards alike, who must fear the Dark Lord. If we lived without fear in these walls, we might forget the danger to others. Icy Fingers is the last link in the chain of our protection. I believe it should be left open so we remember that we are not the only ones in need of safety."  
  
Hermione could see many order members stare at their feet or at the table plates before them. She wasn't sure she understood what Quibster had said, but she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had to find out more about it. Remembering Quibster's organised and slightly boring Muggle Studies lessons, she was confused: Neither treason nor loyalty to an organisation like the League were what she would have expected of the grey little wizard. Only slowly, the witches and wizards around her seemed to recover from Quibster's speech; they talked among themselves again, trying to stomach these news. Penthesilea Finnegan rose from her seat.  
  
"Metheus, how could you?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You have dishonoured the League and this order alike. If this is how you think to fulfil your League member's oath ..." She did not finish her sentence, but just sat down again, apparently dumbstruck my the monstrosity of Quibster's betrayal.  
  
"Why me?" Sirius asked suddenly. "Both parts of your treason were directed at me, whatever other reasons you might have for them. Have you never thought of the effect your actions might have for me?"  
  
Quibster looked Sirius straight in the eyes. "It was easy to hurt you, as you are not as well protected as others in this order. The things I did to you suited my purpose; my fellow League members were always the first thing on my mind. However, there is another reason, though a minor one. Dumbledore once claimed your innocence at an order meeting, but I do not believe it. I am still convinced that you killed my wife," he said quietly.  
  
"I did what?" Sirius shouted and approached Quibster in a threatening way. "I never killed anyb- I never killed a witch in my life!"  
  
Hermione saw Ginny flinch, saw Dumbledore hide his face in his hand, noticed Moody looked sceptical and saw Quibster cast a hateful glance at Sirius. "She wasn't a witch," he whispered acidly. "My wife, killed 1981, was a worthless Muggle, the kind that hardly ever rates a mention with your kind. You probably didn't mean to kill her, but what good is that to me? When you blew up that street of Muggles to punish your traitor friend Pettigrew, did you ever wonder which consequences this might have for the Muggle bystanders?"  
  
"I didn't blow up that street," Sirius replied slowly and softly. "Pettigrew did that to fake his own death. Then he cut off his finger and Transformed into a rat. I am sorry to hear about your wife, but I am not responsible for her death."  
  
"I vouch for that, Metheus, and so does Dumbledore," Lupin said decidedly. "Harry, Hermione and Ron can tell you that they saw Pettigrew is still alive. He's the one you should try to punish. There's no reason why Sirius should have hurt your wife, or any Muggle. Pettigrew was trying to frame Sirius for the betrayal of the Potters, so he blew up the street to make him look evil and mad."  
  
Hermione nodded, just like Ron and Harry. Dumbledore and Sirius confirmed Lupin's statement with nods as well.  
  
Quibster looked very confused. So did Varlerta. "A rat? What do you mean, he Transformed? Was Pettigrew an Animagus like Mr. Black?" she asked.  
  
"Yes, he was," Ron quickly enlightened her. "He posed as my rat, Scabbers. Scabbers had a toe missing, you know, because of the cut-off finger, but of course we didn't know he was Wormtail, and then Hermione bought Crookshanks, and Crookshanks wouldn't leave Scabbers alone, and then one night -"  
  
Varlerta cut him short with a wave of her hand. "Okay, I think I understand," she said curtly, her eyes on Quibster, who somehow looked like a punctured balloon in his misery. Then she turned back to Ron rather abruptly. "A rat, you say, but what was missing was a front toe, not a front paw, right?"  
  
Suddenly many heads turned to her; Hermione saw Harry as well as Sirius turn pale, while Ginny's eyes rounded.  
  
"Volde - er, You-Know-Who had Wormtail cut off his hand when ..." Harry's voice faltered. Hermione noticed how shaken her friend looked. She felt the strong urge to put an arm around his shoulders, but knew that Harry probably wouldn't appreciate it in public. Sirius, she noticed, moved towards Harry and then checked himself, possibly motivated by similar thoughts and feelings.  
  
In Varlerta's face a few muscles twitched; for a moment Hermione thought she could see the cogwheels turn and click in the teacher's brain. "Morgana's ass!" the witch suddenly shouted and slammed her hand down on the table in front of her. "Why the shnirk didn't any of you utter morons take the trouble to tell me?"  
  
Several witches and wizards flinched or scowled at Varlerta's swearing. "Where have you seen him?" Sirius asked in a voice that sounded brittle as dry bones.  
  
"I caught the little vermin, caught him in a rat trap right in my building. I was going to do away with it, but my stup-" with a glance at Ginny's fearfully large eyes, she checked herself and continued in a more neutral tone - "my assistants asked that the vermin should live. So I just sat it free at ..." her voice trailed off; her eyes closed for a second. When she opened them again, she said in a firm tone in direction of Sirius: "I set him free at the stone circle, on a full moon's night. That's how he and his Death Eater friends knew when and where to find us, I believe."  
  
Sirius swore rather rudely. "You mean, nobody told you he was an Animagus?" Meanwhile, Snape was grinning evilly, Hermione could not help noticing. All around the room, witches and wizards were shaking their heads in incomprehension. Dumbledore still had his face hidden in his hand, while Moody murmured something about vigilance.  
  
Varlerta snorted. "How slow do you think I am? No, nobody told me, because in this stupid order, all we ever do is mistrust each other."  
  
"I am sorry, because this distrust is mostly my fault," Quibster said slowly. All his former bravado had evaporated. "I apologise to Albus, whose trust I have betrayed, as well as to you, Mr. Black, because I have done you great harm. I await my punishment. However, whatever happens to me, I still ask all of you to reconsider your decisions regarding the League members."  
  
"How dare you mention the League after your treachery," Penthesilea Finnegan hissed at him. "The President of the League will decide what is to be done with the likes of you!"  
  
With the bearing of a man whose core has been annihilated, Quibster slumped into an empty chair on the side. The witches and wizards next to him moved their chairs away from the traitor.  
  
"So where's your evidence now, Black?" Snape asked derisively. All attention turned back to the Potions Master who had been accused of betrayal not long ago.  
  
Sirius gave him a look of utter contempt, but, obviously remembering his promise, said: "I made a mistake, and I apologise for wrongly accusing you."  
  
Snape nodded grimly, while Dumbledore lifted his tired face out of his wrinkled hand and looked up at the order again. Hermione had the impression that he held several pairs of eyes for a few moments before returning his gaze to Quibster.  
  
"As much as I am dismayed by your treason, Prometheus, I see that there is no question of dismissing it as the crime of an individual, because all of our actions influence each other. The fault, it seems, lies as much with me as with you if you felt you had to resort to such matters to be heard. I will do as you ask and reconsider my policy towards the members of the League. As for punishment, I do not believe in it much. There is nothing I want to do onto you for the things you have done onto us. I hope that all members of this order see things the same way - I certainly would not like to hear of any mean-minded and pointless acts of revenge on you." Dumbledore raised one bushy, white eyebrow. Hermione felt a shiver run through her body. Although not pronounced as a threat, she felt very distinctly that Dumbledore was warning every witch and wizard in the room not to even lay hands on Quibster.  
  
"It is your choice, Metheus, to remain a member of this order, or to have your memory modified. I assure you that you will leave this castle unscathed if that is your choice, but of course, if your fellow League members decide to punish you, that is out of my hands. If however you want to stay a member of this order, be aware that I could never tolerate this kind of treachery twice, or pardon a member who works evil for the Dark Lord."  
  
Dumbledore's benevolent speech of pardon had a sharp edge to it, Hermione thought. Even though the head of the secret order had decided not to punish the wizard who had betrayed his trust, she could not help wondering if Dumbledore might actually kill a witch or wizard who had overstepped a certain limit. Then she saw the headmaster's eyes rest on Penthesilea Finnegan as if daring her to contest his decision. Suddenly she realised that there was more than black and white in the struggle she was witnessing. Even those who should be united to fight Voldemort were sometimes at cross-purposes, just as disagreement seemed to exist even in a mysterious group such as the League. At times, there seemed to be no such thing as a right and a wrong position. Hermione did not feel comfortable with this insight at all; rather it felt like someone had draped a heavy, soaked blanket over her head and shoulders.  
  
"As I said before, miscommunication is the curse of our order, and today I was proven right in several instances, none of which are any cause of contentment for me. The danger of treason is always among us; as long as people trust each other, trust can be betrayed. If there is anything to be learned from that, it is that we have to trust each other nevertheless, that we have to take the risk that comes with communication. Many things that have gone amiss could only happen this way because we did not trust each other. Therefore, I implore you all not to decrease, but to increase your trust in our order."  
  
After a few seconds of confused silence, Gerold Hawks rose. "You old devil, Dumbledore - you have a point there, so I will confess, too, and abandon myself to your mercy. I have an agreement with Fudge to inform him of all things that pass in this room. He convinced me that although he does not mean to interfere with your actions if he can help it, he needed to know what you and your followers are planning. I apologise as well, for I betrayed your trust as well."  
  
"I knew you did," Dumbledore said, and Hermione thought there was a touch of smugness in his eyes. "However, I also know which things you chose not to tell Fudge, namely those which might have convinced him that it was indeed time to interfere with me. This in turn assured me that your real loyalty lies with this order, something that is confirmed by your confession."  
  
Hawks was apparently dumbstruck. "But ... how?" he finally retorted.  
  
"Don't you think I do not have my spies at the Ministry?" Dumbledore said loftily, and Hermione thought she might even have seen a twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, and if you think my plea for trust and honesty goes so far that I will disclose their names to you now, I must disappoint you. I will indeed not. If there is one thing I learned in the past is that some secrets must be kept better than others, and that spies are almost on top of the secrets priority list."  
  
There were a few more topics on the table drawn up for the meeting, but after these disconcerting revelations, nobody was in the mood to discuss things overly much anymore. Most of it had to do with the Ministry, of who was on whose side, and how to keep tabs on Fudge's staff and their lack of activity regarding the threat of Voldemort. All these things had been discussed at great length in previous meetings, and the question of who might be spying on who within the Ministry seemed to be far more interesting to most order members than current events at the office. Hermione sat it out, her mind on other things. The more she heard, the more she wondered if this order was such a great idea after all. Of course, people could help each other and keep each other informed, but it seemed that all the order members were working mostly on their own specific projects. Hermione wondered if this revelation was something she should worry about, but decided that after all these OWL exams, she would leave the worrying to other people for a while.  
  
Somehow, the fate of the Muggle Studies teacher was weighing on her mind. Every now and then she cast him a furtive glance, but Quibster did not look up from his feet even once for the remainder of the meeting. I should despise him, because he betrayed us, Hermione reminded herself. She felt uncomfortable and out of place in the order. When the meeting was over, she gladly rose with Harry and Ron, but as they left the room, she cast another glance in Quibster's direction. She saw Varlerta halting when she passed the traitor on her way out.  
  
"By the way, where are the missing pages out of those books?" the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher asked him in a casual tone without contempt or disgust.  
  
"I will give them to you tonight, before - before I leave," the Muggle Studies teacher replied in a choked voice.  
  
Varlerta nodded, then put a hand on his shoulder. "I will put in a word for you with - you know," she told him silently. Quibster glanced up at her with eyes that had lost all their zeal and energy. "Thank you," he whispered, then averted his gaze. 


	24. Sirius

24 - Sirius  
  
Cosinus Vector, Chent Flitwick, Lupin and Sirius sat with bended heads over a roll of parchment, or, to be precise, data sheet number three, as Varlerta had termed it weeks ago. Sirius smiled to himself when he thought of the teacher who was so well acquainted with Muggle technology: Her idea was to plug a cable into the crystal balls used for the Spellsearchers' experiments and to electronically extract the information stored in them. She had been dismayed to hear that there was no such thing as a Digital- Magical Interface in the crystal balls: All the information they had recorded during the Spellsearchers' experiments had been meticulously transcribed by hand, a task that had taken the Spellsearchers several months of painstaking work. Not for the first time, Sirius wondered whether a general open-mindedness towards Muggle inventions wouldn't perhaps do the wizarding world a lot of good. When his hand had cramped around a quill, when his eye lids felt as if weighed down by lead, he had whispered "Digital-Magical Interface" to himself more and more often during these last weeks and months.  
  
Once the task of transcription had been accomplished, the Spellsearchers had recently turned to the task of analysis. Like data sheet number one, the piece of parchment the four wizards studied was written in Sirius' scrawl. Again and again, Flitwick complained about its illegibility. Data sheet number two did not exist, as crystal ball number two had been smashed on that horrible night when Sirius and Lupin had almost managed to freeze Dumbledore to death with their experiments. Of course, whenever someone would put forth a hypothesis regarding the forces at work in the Glaciera curse, someone else, usually Lupin, would say cheerfully: "Proofs for this to be found on data sheet number two."  
  
Sirius sighed; they had to make use of the information they had, not the information that had been lost. Data sheet four and five however were tolerably neat, as they were Lupin's work. Just every now and then, Sirius' lycanthropic friend had added a little comment on the margin - his personal running gag, namely that the clue to the curse's group effect was 'love and compassion.' Sirius could understand Lupin's need to joke. Writing the data sheet had not been a particularly rewarding work in itself so far.  
  
The crystal balls had recorded information about the flow of magic during the experiment; they stored it in the shape of filigree threads of coloured light. Lupin and Sirius had translated these threads into formulas, figures and Arithmantic symbols according to a system which Vector had shown them. After they had finished the transcription, they had tried to make sense of them. Many hours and chocolate éclairs were spent on an attempt to find recurrent patterns which might be an indication of what powers were at work in the Glaciera curse. They had found strong patterns of cold, paralysing patterns, patterns that froze the strength of witches and wizards. This concurred with all they knew about the curse already. What they did not know was how Icy Fingers gained entrance into the central core of magical power inherent to each witch or wizard. They had yet to find out how the curse managed to completely permeate people's strength instead of being a moderate nuisance, as ice curses usually were. Moreover, they still needed to understand the curse's effect on groups before they could determine the counter curse.  
  
With the help of Vector and Flitwick, occasionally aided by Varlerta and Snape, they tried to make sense of the flood of semi-comprehensible formulas on the data sheet. They had extracted a number of recurrent patterns they now knew to be accidental, as they did not have any coherent meaning in terms of magic flow. Then there were patterns which appeared to be central to the curse, but which had not been deciphered yet. By comparing different data sheets, they had eliminated several formulas, slowly narrowing down their search to a few. Vector was a big help, boring and thorough as he was; he was the only one who truly understood what they were dealing with. At that moment, he was bent over the roll of parchment, occasionally stopping to jot down a few notes. When he raised his head abruptly, Sirius at once knew something was up: for the phlegmatic Arithmancy teacher, this was almost an outburst of temper.  
  
"I believe that Lupin has hit the nail on the head with his joke," Vector muttered, running his dry quill over many lines of notes which were only half-comprehensible even to the one who had written them. After fixing all three wizards with a meaningful stare, Vector dipped his quill into the ink bottle on the table and wrote a formula on his spare piece of parchment. Sirius, who had limited his encounters with Arithmancy to the bare necessities, frowned. He recognised some of the elements of the formula, but could not properly put them together.  
  
"This is love," Vector said matter-of-factly and tapped his quill at the end of the formula, leaving a number of tiny black dots on the pavement. "Love in the widest sense of the word, I should say."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Cosinus," piped miniscule Flitwick, voicing Sirius' thoughts. "There's no such thing as an Arithmantic formula for love."  
  
"Of course there is," Vector replied dryly. "All types of magical energy in this universe can be expressed in an Arithmantic formula. Don't tell me love is not magical, or not energy." He said this without the slightest hint of passion, making Sirius wonder whether the intensely boring Arithmancy teacher had ever felt love himself. For a disconcerting moment, the face of another teacher flashed before his inner eye.  
  
"Don't tell me love is objectively measurable or expressible in figures," Lupin said softly, running an ink-stained finger over the lines that Sirius had written.  
  
"It's not only a measurable, but a usable source of energy, something an able wizard can channel and direct," Vector insisted stubbornly. "Don't become all passionate about it, dear colleagues. What we see in the data recorded by the crystal balls is that the Icy Fingers curse draws on two sources, namely individuals' magical strength and on the feelings that hold a group of people together."  
  
"Which is love?" Sirius asked sceptically. "Excuse me, Cosinus, but the sixties are well past, and Hogwarts has never been a place for free love abounding. We're in the middle of a scientific discussion here, and we are trying to find a counter curse to help us against one of the most deadliest weapon the enemy possesses. You are supposed to be the expert on rational and abstract thinking. Could you please come off whatever love boat you are riding?" He noticed that without intending to, he had assumed a sharp tone of voice; his last words were accentuated by a slap of his palm onto the surface of the battered Spellsearchers' table. Vector merely raised an eyebrow.  
  
"This is not a matter of opinion or taste, Sirius. It's all here in the figures, and figures, as you well know, constitute an absolute truth. We can give the phenomenon another name, a less offensive one, if it makes you feel any better - caring, friendship, esteem. However, I should not have to remind you, a trained Spellsearcher, that there are numerous ways to magically influence the feelings that pass between people. There are love potions, for example, or spells that raise a person's charisma or attractiveness. Wizards use illusions to gain other wizards' respect, and witches use glamour charms to enhance their beauty and to gain the hearts of wizards. All these spells are calculable by means of Arithmancy."  
  
"But these are only petty tricks to deceive. You can't magically create real feelings like love or respect," Sirius argued, biting back a comment regarding Vector's old-fashioned view of gender roles.  
  
"What is real, what is fake in the realm of emotions?" Vector asked without a hint of enigma or pathos. "Would your love for a witch be less real because she secretly dabbles in beauty charms?"  
  
Again, Sirius briefly thought of Professor Varlerta, who freely admitted that the silky quality of her hair was courtesy of Roary Lyons and his astonishing hair potions. But, of course, such thoughts were not to the point, so he shooed them away. The idea that there might be no difference between true love and magically manipulated emotions was outrageous.  
  
"Of course, what Icy Fingers seems to be doing is much more effective, and therefore much more vile," Vector stated evenly. "The curse is not causing or manipulating feelings, it is using them. Within every group, there are imperceptible channels where feelings such as regard or friendship flow. If I do not misread the data generated by your crystal measurement balls, Icy Fingers uses these channels. It runs along them, finds a wizard's weak spot, not in his lack of strength, but in his concern for others around him."  
  
"You mean it is not only the individuals who are vulnerable to the curse, but the space between them," Lupin murmured, absentmindedly running a hand through his greying hair, something he did only when he was lost in thought.  
  
"It is not its members that make a group larger than the sum of its parts, but the relationships between them,", Flitwick rephrased Lupin's comment with an enthusiastic nod.  
  
"But how could Voldemort -" Sirius saw Flitwick and Vector flinch at his use of the name, "how could he have gotten such an idea? I am pretty sure that love, or caring for others, is not one of the things he generally gives much heed to."  
  
"By developing the Glaciera curse, Voldemort once more did what he is best at - he uses people against each other." The well-known voice made Sirius turn around abruptly. Trust the old wizard to appear suddenly on the scene whenever something crucial was happening at Hogwarts, Sirius thought admiringly. Dumbledore's beard moved with a greeting smile, but his eyes remained grave.  
  
"He exploits one of the best things we all have in our hearts, namely the concern for those around us, the worry for those dear to us," Dumbledore continued. "Just like he forced many of his followers into servitude by threatening to harm their friends and families, he has found a curse that turns a group's unity from a weakness into a strength. No matter how strong we are, all of us have a weak spot for a few people, or that is how he sees it. They are on our minds, and they are the way to our hearts. Thus they are an open door for him to gain access to our strength, if your observations are correct."  
  
Something like a hunch hit Sirius unprepared. That is the reason why Icy Fingers affects Dumbledore so much, he thought. It has nothing to do with weakness, and even little with his immense magical strength. The reason he is so vulnerable to this curse is that he has so many people on his mind, that he cares for so many.  
  
Meanwhile, Vector had written down his central formula on a clean piece of parchment to show it to Dumbledore. "This is what I believe the central force at work in Icy Fingers," he told the headmaster.  
  
Dumbledore nodded approvingly, something Vector undoubtedly expected from him. "Well done indeed, Cosinus," he said. "Our Spellsearchers will have to run a number of tests on this, but you may very well have found what so many of us have been looking for so long."  
  
Sirius knew he should be excited, or at least display excitement, but somehow he could not bring himself to do so. To him, this discovery did not feel like a success; it only made him feel the numerous past defeats more bitterly. He fought down the rising despair with the best weapon he knew; he looked ahead.  
  
"And after we have done that, all we have to do is find a counter curse," he said in a mock-cheerful tone, evoking moans from Lupin and Flitwick.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He knew he should celebrate that night, but after Lupin had retired early, who could he celebrate with? Well, he knew quite well with whom he could celebrate if he managed to get into a festive mood. "Rock 'n Roll Highschool," he said from underneath the Invisibility Cloak when he had arrived at her door. Knocking on it was often useless when she was playing one of her instruments at high volume, and she could not hear such things as shouting from inside her soundproof building.  
  
As soon as the door opened to him, he was enveloped by the noise of her guitar, something that was not unusual at all. Professor Varlerta was standing in front of her amplifier, headphones on her ears, blasting away at full volume. When she saw him, she acknowledged his presence with a smile, played for another few minutes and then switched off a small Muggle recording device that stood on a small table. She turned off her amplifier, took off the headphones and placed the guitar on its stand. "Ready for a walk around the lake?" she asked.  
  
He nodded. Walking around the lake had become a little of a convention between them, even though he could not say exactly why they did it. He usually wore his Invisibility Cloak, but of course, a few times he had almost been discovered in the past: Whenever they ran into someone who did not know of his presence at Hogwarts, Varlerta had to explain away the fact that she had been discussing things with herself at length, and what's more, with two different voices. Luckily, making excuses work was something with which she was good.  
  
Today the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was obviously in the best of spirits. She was almost skipping along the path that wound around the lake, passing the dark, looming forest on its way, moving with music that no one but her could here, it seemed. Sirius told her all about the Spellsearchers' astonishing discovery. She listened to his elaborate description of the scene that had passed in the laboratory without putting in any comments of her own. When he had finished, she replied: "You're not happy."  
  
"Yes, you are right, I should be happy about it," he admitted. He felt a little guilty about not being overjoyed at Vector's discovery.  
  
"There's no 'should' in feelings, Sirius," she chided, waving her hand impatiently. "If you're not happy, you're not happy, and that's that. I do wonder why it is so, but there's no obligation to explain anything."  
  
He sighed. Near the gloomy forest, his sigh sounded especially mournful. "Maybe I'm just a moping pessimist, and that's all. If we have really found the right formula, it means the fulfilment of a fifteen-year-old hope to me. Knowing what makes a curse tick is the best way to find a counter curse, you know. If you understand the direction the magic takes, you can sometimes even counter it without a fixed procedure or word." He saw her open her mouth, but he knew what she was going to say, so he conceded: "Yes, of course, this supports your hypothesis that Linquist's supplement theory from The Jigsaw Fit is bullshit. Actually, I think you may be right. Still, we are going to select a proper word tomorrow."  
  
She nodded. "That makes sense, especially when it comes to teaching the counter curse to others."  
  
He laughed briefly; it sounded a little joyless even to him. "We aren't that far yet," he reminded her.  
  
"We should do our best," she replied earnestly. "I'll come in tomorrow and see if I can be of any help. You know what Dumbledore said the other day? Actually I agree with him."  
  
"You mean about the feast? Or do you mean the thing about refining the curse?" They had discussed at length why there had not been another Icy Fingers attack on Hogwarts for so long now. Most people in the castle seemed to believe that as Hogwarts had proven able to defend itself on Halloween, the Death Eaters had been scared off. There were more pessimistic ways of reasoning, however: Either the Death Eaters were working on a stronger, more terrible version of Icy Fingers to attack the castle, or they were waiting for the next feast for an optimal group attack. This feast would be in three days before all students left the school.  
  
"I don't want to make any kind of prediction," Varlerta said a little hurriedly. Still, somehow Sirius suspected that she saw things like he did: Both reasons might very well be true at the same time.  
  
"What will you do when you're done with your task?" she suddenly asked. If her purpose was to cheer him up with this question, she hadn't succeeded, he thought morosely. Actually, it was the worst question anyone could ask him.  
  
"I have no idea," he answered, fighting to keep his voice level. "There's nothing to pull me into any particular direction. I have no job, no home, no family - and probably I never will."  
  
"Oh, that's what's bothering you," she said lightly, though her eyes were serious.  
  
"Well..." He thought of a suitable way of putting things without sounding like he was blaming her. "When I heard about... about the way Peter Pettigrew escaped again...not that it's your fault in any way, of course...."  
  
"No, it's not, because I couldn't know he could transform into a rat," she said matter-of-factly, "though I sure wish I had acted differently. You're thinking about him now, and you're wondering if you are ever going to be cleared, or if you are doomed to spend your whole life on the run."  
  
Once more, her directness felt like a shock. He had forbidden himself to even consider this possibility, but of course, it was always there, looming in the back of his mind. He tried to find a fitting reply, one that would not sound like Moaning Myrtle, but he failed.  
  
They had surrounded the lake; Professor Varlerta's soundproof building came back into view. Suddenly she stopped short in her tracks and turned to where she believed him to be. "This may happen, you are aware of that. However, even if you spend your life as an outlaw, I do not believe you will have to be a lonely and homeless outcast. Life on the run is not what anybody would choose, but it's better than Azkaban, I am sure."  
  
Somehow, she sounded like she knew what she was talking about, not with regards to Azkaban, but with regards to life on the run. He saw that she was doing her best to smile at him, so he took off the hood of the Cloak so she could smile into the right direction. The light of the crescent moon shone on her face and on her hair; it emphasized her dark lashes and eyebrows. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sirius wondered whether Lupin had remembered drinking his potion tonight. "It certainly sounds like a rather isolated way of life to me," he said, his voice more bitter than he had intended.  
  
"I do not believe you will have to be lonely all your life, Mr. Black," she said, somehow looking smug. "Neither, as a matter of fact, do I reckon that just because you are wanted dead or alive, you will have to do without a home, without friends, or without love."  
  
"Yes, but... which woman would want a man that has to live on the run?" he asked, realising that he sounded sickeningly pleading.  
  
"That may depend on your choice of woman." Her voice was a bit hoarse, but she looked like a cat that had eaten the canary, and the goldfish to boot, he thought, feeling excitement paired with unease take hold of him. He noticed that she stood closer to him than just a minute before, though he had not noticed her move towards him; there seemed to be a whiff of jasmine in the air.  
  
She must be in the process of seducing me, he thought, his heart beating against his ribs. Does that mean she would be willing to share the unsteady life that lies ahead of me? Unsure of how to contribute to this strange, unfamiliar thing going on between them, he raised a hand and touched her lightly at the shoulder. He let it slide down her sleeved arm, but before he came to the point of touching her hand, he backed off. She made a slight movement, whether to avoid his touch or whether to catch his hand, he did not know. Sirius put his hand back into his pocket, clutching the fabric to make up for the sensation of emptiness in his palm. Varlerta looked him straight into the eyes.  
  
"Can I offer you like a glass of wine or something over at my place?" She turned her head towards the flat, unlit building, than back at him to smile. Something in her eyes let him hope she was in fact offering more than a drink: Now the cat had devoured a large and valuable koi carp, he thought, at the same time amazed by the absurdity of his ideas.  
  
Should he tell her...? No, definitely not. There was nothing more embarrassing than a male virgin aged thirty-six, he thought (with the possible exception of a male virgin aged thirty-seven). He would have to rely on his ability to fake the expert. What would an expert do in such a situation? Kiss the woman, he decided, and act the gentleman when punished by a slap across the face. All things considered, this seemed to be the smaller risk, he thought, so he put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her towards him and kissed her.  
  
Of course, this wasn't his first kiss; there had been a period in his fifth year when he had kissed girls, in the plural. This had caused a considerable amount of trouble and resentment among the girls, so he had soon decided to lay off his activities until the point where he could kiss a girl he really liked. Now, more than twenty years later, that point had come. Back then, the novelty of lips touching lips had been exciting, but certainly not as electric. A strange energy flooded him, not only his lips and his face, but also his hands, his chest; it even reached down to his...feet: The ground seemed warmer and decidedly more shaky than normal.  
  
Varlerta welcomed his kiss very warmly indeed; her hands wandered under his Cloak, where they ran up and down his back, and she drew even closer to him. Jasmine, no doubt about it, he noticed in the back of his mind. He buried his hands in the hair at the back of her head for a while, then grew a bit bolder. Unlike the fifth- and fourth-year girls he had kissed, she did not protest. Exploring seemed to be the right thing, so he continued his activities for a long, long while. He felt her hands tug at his robe around his waist at some point, then give up and return to stroking his back. "Damn floor-length robes," she murmured between two kisses. Suddenly she drew away, visibly out of breath.  
  
"Before we cause a scandal here in the open grounds, maybe we should go inside," she said hoarsely. Her hair was dishevelled, but she did not seem the least displeased with anything.  
  
This is really happening, he had to remind himself. She gave him a questioning look, which made him realise that she expected him to agree or disagree with her suggestion.  
  
"Yes, of course," he hurried to reply. She smiled at him rather gently.  
  
"Trust me, you'll like it," she said seriously. Maybe he had not succeeded in faking the expert after all, he thought as they walked towards her building, hands entwined. But then again, maybe that wasn't as important as he had thought it might be.  
  
**********************************************  
  
"As Professor Varlerta suggested, the word for the counter curse is not of central importance; however, I am personally convinced that a well-chosen word enhances a spell by giving the mind a focus. Also, it should have a sound structure that enables the witch or wizard a dynamic and forceful utterance. My personal favourite for this counter curse is Taovétta, which suggests thawing and new hope."  
  
Sirius found it hard to concentrate on Flitwick's words. The temptation to replay scenes from last night in his head was overwhelming; much rather he would have repeated the experience right now instead of trying to find a counter curse in a hurry. He cast a glance at Varlerta sitting next to Flitwick and wondered whether she felt the same. She must have felt his gaze, because she looked up at him, a mischievous smile in her eyes. Then she pointed at Flitwick with a movement of her eyes. Sirius glanced over to the Charms teacher who looked at him expectantly.  
  
"Taovétta. Yes, of course, why not? It has a very dynamic feel to it." For a second he thought he might have said something stupid, but then everybody accepted his reply with a nod. Taovétta it would be.  
  
"We will conduct the experiments as planned yesterday," Lupin started to explain. Sirius felt a surge of gratitude towards his old friend. Trust him to take a situation into his hands to make up for the fact that Sirius' mind was elsewhere. Lupin continued: "Chent and Cosinus will be inside Sirius' new Atmoglisa Forta. We will limit the experiment to two wizards to keep the group effect limited for now. I will cast the curse, and Sirius will try our preliminary counter curse. Varlerta will have her guitar ready just in case. Let's try to keep Dumbledore uninformed of what we are doing - you know how stubborn he is. Oh, and of course you three will have to leave, for safety reasons."  
  
His last words were directed at Harry, Ron and Hermione, who sat on the side to watch. Now that the weekend had started, classes were over; they would get the result of their OWLs the day after tomorrow and leave on the train the day after that. Sirius warmly thought of a conversation he had had with Dumbledore some days ago. Maybe he wasn't quite as kinless as he had believed he was.  
  
As true Gryffindors, the three disagreed with Lupin, of course.  
  
"We aren't even underage anymore - we as good as hold our OWLs in our hands. All we want to do is witness the first countering of the curse. We'll stay out of harm's way, we promise," Hermione pleaded.  
  
"You said your new Atmoglisa Forta was so safe that watching the process should not be dangerous anymore," Harry said in an almost admiring way. With that, he had hit a weak spot, of course: The Atmoglisa Forta was the one thing of which Sirius truly felt proud. He had managed to develop an enhanced version of the common Atmoglisa Magica, double-layered and much safer than the magic protection they had used at that last, near-fatal experiment. Also, it enabled you to counter a curse from the outside, which would keep the tension between battling magical forces lower. The danger of the Atmoglisa Forta cracking open and letting a curse run out of bounds was much smaller than with a generic Atmoglisa.  
  
"Only think of the things we might learn!" Trust Hermione to come up with that kind of a remark. Ron nodded vigorously.  
  
"I'm not happy with you three staying here," he objected lamely. Then he looked around. Nobody seemed particularly worried; Varlerta answered his questioning look with a decidedly flirty wink.  
  
"I shouldn't think there would be a problem if they stayed, Sirius," she said.  
  
Maybe they were right. Compared to the last experiment, this one was much less dangerous.  
  
Before they started the experiment, all witches and wizards in the room practiced the counter curse. Flitwick instructed them, corrected their pronunciation and wand movements until they felt right to him. "Taovétta!" they finally shouted in unison. Sirius felt as if he was back in charms class again. Flitwick, then a young and dynamic teaching novice, had always been overly critical with him.  
  
Lupin and Sirius built up the Atmoglisa Forta. Sirius double-checked everything to make sure the people within as well as the people outside the device would be safe. Flitwick and Vector got inside; Varlerta set up her guitar, while Harry, Hermione and Ron obediently sat down on the side where they wouldn't be in the way. Sirius gave Lupin his okay. He watched his friend raise his wand at the Atmoglisa.  
  
"Glaciera!" Sirius could simply not get used to the way Lupin's voice changed when uttering the curse of the Death Eaters. Usually friendly and not overly loud, it seemed to grow the sonic equivalent of teeth; the sound always reminded Sirius of Lupin, the wolf. The Atmoglisa steamed up and froze over from the inside, but Sirius had the impression that the curse was weakened indeed by their safety measures as well as the reduced number of wizards within the dome of magical light. Vector and Flitwick seemed alright; he could see them wave from within, a sign that they were coping. Sirius felt his heart beat frantically. Trying to fight down his excitement, he concentrated on the magical structures of the Icy Fingers curse, on its effect, the way it worked on people, used their strengths and their weaknesses to freeze their core. He set his mind against that force, willed it to stop, to lose its power, to be countered by his willpower.  
  
"Taovétta!" His voice thundered across the room. He saw an orange glow shoot from his wand and enter the Atmoglisa. From within, he could see a brief firework of blue and orange sparks; a spot in the icy layer on the dome became transparent again. The Atmoglisa Forta flickered and shook, but remained intact and safe. From within, he could see Flitwick give him a thumbs up before the spot froze over again.  
  
"Glacifin!" Lupin terminated the curse, something that worked reliably again due to the magic limiting powers of the Atmoglisa Forta. Flitwick and Vector emerged from the dome, rubbing their arms and blowing on their fingers. Sirius felt sorry for them. Lab rat for experiments with Icy Fingers - this was not a job, but a punishment, he thought, a punishment suitable only for - well, for rats.  
  
When Flitwick beamed at him, he banned all dark thoughts.  
  
"That was quite a good shot, Sirius," Flitwick piped enthusiastically. "It was certainly a step in the right direction! Did you see those sparks? Your counter curse really fought the Glaciera curse in there. With a bit of practice and a few adjustments, you might very well succeed!"  
  
Sirius shook his head modestly, though he had to admit he was pleased himself. "This was only a toy version of the curse. Once we are fighting against the real curse, we'll see what our counter curse is worth."  
  
Flitwick patted him on the hand, probably because he was by no means tall enough to pat Sirius on the shoulder. "One step at a time, Sirius. You've done well. It looked quite promising - you might have really found what you were looking for. One step into the right direction is always better than a hundred steps into the wrong direction, as my grandmother used to say."  
  
Sirius nodded, not ungrateful for the encouragement. "Thank you, Chent. Ready for another go?"  
  
Vector nodded, but Flitwick looked doubtful. "Have you got some hot tea for me?" he asked. As a matter of fact, they did, because Lupin had thought of ordering some from the house elves, once more the caring friend who remembered such details. Flitwick slurped his tea, then agreed for a second try, which went much like the first. For the third try, Flitwick suggested that Sirius and Harry should try to counter the curse together. The two of them managed to produce significantly more colourful sparks than Sirius alone, but no relevant success apart from that.  
  
After the third attempt to counter Icy Fingers, Vector and Flitwick declared that they needed a break, a break of several days if possible, before they would enter any Atmoglisa again. Sirius did not really mind; he was exhausted himself. Countering the spell was harder work than he would have thought it was.  
  
Flitwick and Vector said they were off to bed and Pepperup Potion; Harry, Ron and Hermione declared that they were off to visit Buckbeak and Hagrid, probably accompanied by Ginny to comply with the current Hogwarts safety regulations. Buckbeak was presently undergoing an untimely moult. Consequently Hagrid's hut and pumpkin patch were drowning in cast-off feathers, and Buckbeak looked like something the kneazel had brought in; he seemed a little depressed. Hagrid in turn was more than a little distressed at the Hippogriff's moult; Harry, Ron and Hermione were helping him groom the bird until Hagrid had found out what might be wrong with his pet.  
  
Of course, it would have been polite to accompany the students and see his former winged steed himself, Sirius thought, but what he really wanted was to be alone with Professor ... with Varlerta. The black-haired witch was taking her time packing her guitar and amplifier; she might even be waiting for him to approach her. He walked up to her. "So are you busy now?" he asked softly.  
  
Varlerta grinned. "Care for a cup of tea and a research-related discussion, Sirius?"  
  
"Any time - Varlerta."  
  
They walked down to her building in the midday sun. He had gentlemanly offered to carry her amplifier, so now he had to be careful to keep the heavy little box under the folds of the Cloak. As often, he inwardly cursed the need to conceal himself. It would have been nice to lay down at the lake with her - no, not at the lake, too many students - to find a nice, sunny place in the forest where she wandered so often. It wasn't a day to stay indoors.  
  
"I wish I could Portkey to a lonely island with you for a while, or at least Disapparate to some deserted spot in the Highlands," he said when they had set down her equipment in the music laboratory. "Of course, I have to stay at Hogwarts for safety reasons, and I don't know how to Apparate...."  
  
"Neither do I." She was leaning against the wall and did not seem to be bent on any kind of scientific discussion, as he had suspected. She rather looked like she might very well like to get closer to him again, but for once, they appeared to have plenty of time. Idly she asked him: "How comes you never took the test?"  
  
"Well, you know, being an Animagus changes the structure of your body in some subtle ways. Traces of the Animagus spell remain in your body tissues even when you are human again. That in itself is not a problem, but because I was an illegal Animagus...."  
  
She nodded. "They would have discovered you."  
  
"Probably. The committee for Apparation licences check you over, see if you are healthy and powerful enough to even try Apparation. I didn't want to take the risk. What about you?"  
  
Varlerta chuckled quietly. "It was quite similar with me, actually. I really wanted to get my license, but I was living under an assumed name at that time. I took Aurors' training and was rather eager to keep my parentage secret, as you can imagine. As you said, this British committee of Apparation, they check just everything, and that sort of scared me off. I thought they might find out who I was, how old I really was and everything."  
  
Sirius was fascinated, but also a little troubled by this revelation. Obviously, there were still a number of things about the witch in front of him that he did not know.  
  
"When I was living in the States I considered learning it," she continued, "but you know, these American wizards, they Apparate like maniacs! Severed limbs and heads all over the place, I tell you. You wouldn't have wanted to try it either if you had seen them at it, believe me!"  
  
She laughed at her own joke, and he laughed with her, drawing close to her. Suddenly she stopped dead in the middle of a laugh and gave him a serious look.  
  
"I didn't tell you yet, did I?"  
  
It was the perfect question to raise a newly found lover's anxiety, he thought. "What didn't you tell me?" he asked nervously.  
  
"I'm going back to the States in three days."  
  
"You are - what?" He felt his heart sink.  
  
"Only for the holiday," she hurried to say and placed a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, I should have told you. I'm going to do another CD with my band. The studio is booked, and they got a number of things recorded already. Then we are going on a little tour, just a couple of gigs across the country. They kicked out my successor, you know, because he was really getting on their nerves. Now we've been sending tapes with new ideas back and forth, so we've got quite a few nice new songs patched together. I've been looking forward to it for ages - and now I wish I could take you with me!"  
  
She said all this very quickly and with a pleading look, as if asking him to understand. He did, in a way, but then again, he did not. He noticed that while she had said she wished she could take him with her, she certainly hadn't said she wished she wasn't going. What had happened between them was so new and incredible to him. The thought that she might go away just now was simply unbearable.  
  
"Oh, Sirius, don't look at me like that," she said despairingly. "I know it's lousy timing, but I'll be back in September, I promise!"  
  
"You won't be back," he said darkly.  
  
She frowned. "Of course I will. Why shouldn't I?"  
  
"The job is jinxed. No Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher comes back for a second year of teaching."  
  
"Says who?" Hands on her hips, chin up and eyes flashing, she was all indignation now.  
  
"It's a rule," he explained. "It's a Hogwarts tradition. There hasn't been one in about thirty years who came back to teach a second year, as far as I know."  
  
She laughed. "I'm not much of a follower of rules, you know. Neither do I give much heed to tradition. If nobody hexes me off the stage, I'll be back in September, I swear. It's my job, after all."  
  
His canary-eating cat was back again, he thought. He felt a little better, though only a little. He rested his head against hers. "I can't believe you are going away just now," he murmured.  
  
"Neither can I," she whispered and gently ran a finger across his cheek. "But it's not just now, it's only quite soon. For just now, let's make the most of the time we've got." 


	25. Ginny

25 - Ginny  
  
For days, Professor Varlerta had been talking about little else than her band - about rejoining her band for the holidays, about the CD they were going to record in a breathtakingly short time, and of course about the farewell feast when her band would come to Hogwarts to perform as an end-of- term treat. Of course, Varlerta usually hurried to add self-consciously: "A treat for me rather than for anyone else, I reckon," but Ginny didn't believe so. She had listened to some older Magic Mushroom productions and found the more the listened to them, the more she liked them.  
  
It was obvious that Professor Varlerta was looking forward to seeing her band very much. Ginny felt a little envious. Playing drums was all very nice, but she had come to realise that the drum set wasn't the kind of instrument to be enjoyed in solitude only. Playing in a band of her own, now that would be something! Of course, most other students at Hogwarts were not interested in Muggle arts; it might be difficult to find other musicians among them. However, maybe a gig of the Mushrooms might convince others that the stage of the rock band was the choice place to be.  
  
Varlerta had complimented her for her improving drum skills and had even consented to jam with her two or three times in the last months. Regarding the anticipated arrival of the Mushrooms, she had told Ginny: "If I was you, I would cling to Aisha, watch her closely and even try to get her to teach me a few things on the drums. All I know about the drum set I have learned from her. She's one of the best drummers I know, a true magician - on the drums, I mean."  
  
It had taken Ginny a while to figure out what Varlerta had actually said. "You mean, Aisha - is a Muggle??"  
  
Varlerta had laughed. "Sure she is, and so is Pat. How Roary will get them through Hogwarts' Muggle-repellent barrier is a mystery to me, by the way. Both are as Muggly as it gets - they could eat and digest a wand without generating a single spark. However, if you hear them play, you might change your mind about Muggles not being able to do magic."  
  
That conversation had taken place two days ago. Since then, Varlerta had talked about the arrival of her band conspicuously less often. As a matter of fact, Ginny had not seen too much of Varlerta since Friday. Instead, she and Rhonda Celps had sat on the sunny lawn with snobby Candice Fudge and Natasha Bagman, forced to be amicable by the rule that students should be out in the ground in groups of four or more students only. As the Saturday afternoon wore on with unnerving slowness, a few Ravenclaw Fourth Years came by, among them Cassandra Clearwater. Ginny did not generally mind Cassy. She knew that Cassy would be her sister-in-law in another month, and as Molly had pointed out, it was always important to be on good terms with your family. However, if she had to discuss Percy's and Penelope's wedding one more time, she would throw a screaming fit, she thought. All Cassandra seemed to be interested in were dress robes, flower decorations, hair potions and the male half of the guest list. Ginny thought the Ravenclaw girl insufferably superficial. Of course, she did not really throw a screaming fit when Cassy - how else could it be - turned the conversation to the wedding. Candy and Natasha were invited, too; so were quite a few people working for the Ministry, as well as their families. Ginny was glad that the Clearwaters would pay for most of the reception. They'd better, she thought, as they had organised the celebration in a way that did not go well with the Weasley way of life.  
  
Percy and Penelope were going to get married in the posh, traditional Ceremony Hall on Anglesey, the first address for the wedding of a pure- blooded witch and wizard couple in Britain, if not in the world. Ginny knew from hints in her mother's letters that this had been a cause of major disagreements within the Weasley family. It was not hard to imagine her father losing his temper over this whole business, something he did rarely, but very impressively on special occasions. "My son is not getting married in the core institution of all the conservatives and pure-blood fanatics Britain holds! If you two are going to celebrate your wedding there just to impress society and improve your career options, I advise you to get yourself some surrogate parents that will look and behave adequately in this setting and in your future life," he might very well have said. Molly would have smoothed things over, would have reached a kind of truce between Percy and his father, of course. Everybody would eventually attend the wedding and pretend that everything was fine. Ginny would get a new dress robe, but Cassandra, Candice and even the daughter of debt-ridden Ludo Bagman would get better ones - if Britain's witch and wizard high society could be persuaded to actually attend a Weasley wedding. All in all, Ginny could think of better ways to spend that particular day in a delightful way.  
  
When Cassandra took Madam Malkin's dress robe catalogue from out of her robes' pockets, Ginny saw Rhonda turn her eyes towards the blue and cloudless sky. The two girls secretly shared a grin. Candice and Natasha were a power to be reckoned with; as in each group of year-, house- and dorm-mates, open conflict among the female Gryffindor Fourth Years would not do. Ginny reminded herself that she would have to sleep in one room with them for another three years, and consequently pulled herself together. When asked to comment on a particularly costly emerald green silk robe, she actually managed to reply: "Very pretty, Natasha - I think it would match your eye colour," without having to puke at her own hypocrisy. Behind Natasha's back, Rhonda pretended to gag. Ginny felt rewarded for her patience.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The Mushrooms arrived on Sunday around one o'clock, while many students were having lunch. When the door of the Great Hall opened and Roary stepped in, looking as handsome as ever, all heads turned. Ginny thought they might have hardly chosen a better moment for their arrival to be noticed. Varlerta rapidly rose from her seat at the High Table and practically ran to greet them. The two Muggle members of the band stepped out of the shade so that Ginny could see them. Her first impression was one of disappointment: Next to radiantly gorgeous Roary and rather good-looking Varlerta, Pat and Aisha seemed ordinary and insignificant, the kind of generic Muggles you passed on the street without really noticing them. Ginny murmured an excuse to Rhonda and put her half-empty plate away. Then she moved closer to the group as unobtrusively as she could.  
  
Pat was tall and lanky, moving as gracelessly as a male adolescent on the height of puberty. His overly long face immediately reminded Ginny of statues she had seen of Echnaton, only missing the heretic Pharaoh's slightly slanted eyes. Despite the summery warmth, Pat wore a knee-long cloth jacket over his leather pants; on his lapel, Ginny spotted a battered red metal ribbon. The only remarkable feature of the male Muggle was his straight, shiny brown hair which hung long over his back and reminded Ginny suspiciously of Varlerta's hair.  
  
Aisha on the other hand looked completely unremarkable at first sight. She was easily the smallest and youngest member of the band, but not as in 'young and pretty.' She wore a nondescript grey t-shirt over black denims; her black hair was cropped very short. Somehow, it made her face look naked and exposed. Her features, especially the large, dark eyes staring out of an olive complexion, were dominated by a beak of a nose which could not even euphemistically be called feminine, a nose decorated with a stud the shape of a silver spider. Her ears were adorned with a number of slender, silver rings; on her right upper arm the tattoo of a dragon wound out of her t-shirt sleeve. Molly would have never let her into the house, Ginny thought.  
  
When Varlerta spotted Ginny, she beckoned her closer and introduced her to her fellow musicians. Ginny felt very shy all of a sudden. She stared down at Aisha's ugly German health sandals, the same model Bill wore, she couldn't help noticing, and even almost the same size. Aisha took Ginny's hand and gave it a firm squeeze.  
  
"I've heard a lot about you," she said with a warm, melodious alto voice, her large brown eyes somewhere between serious and humorous. "It's always a pleasure to see a new generation of female drummers grow up."  
  
Ginny felt the heat rise into her face. "I'm...I'm only learning," she said stupidly.  
  
"Yes, of course you are," the drummer replied. "We are all only learning. That's the point of the whole business." These words strongly reminded Ginny of Varlerta. Maybe it was a musician thing, she decided.  
  
Varlerta turned to Aisha. "I think we should go and introduce you two to the teachers and to the headmaster. After that, I'm rather eager to get practicing. As a matter of fact, I had hoped you would arrive much earlier than this."  
  
Ginny was taken aback. "You want to - practice? But you are already...." Her voice trailed off. Varlerta laughed.  
  
"Of course we want to practice. We haven't played together for almost a year! It was a really nice idea of Dumbledore to ask us to play tomorrow night, and we certainly wouldn't want to make fools out of ourselves."  
  
"Definitely - no gig without practice," Aisha confirmed.  
  
"I've been looking forward to it for weeks. Wait until you hear some of our new material," Pat told Varlerta proudly.  
  
"Wait until you hear some of mine," Varlerta replied smugly.  
  
"Oh yes, and then there's the waltzes to practice," Roary remarked good- naturedly.  
  
"Waltzes? Did you say waltzes?" Aisha seemed dismayed.  
  
Varlerta laughed. "Dumbledore asked us to play, but he specifically requested that we play three waltzes so some of the teachers get to dance, too. Of course, we're not playing Strauss, we're playing rock waltzes, jazz at worst. We haven't got any of our own, so we will have to cover a few tunes."  
  
Roary put an encouraging hand on Aisha's shoulder, gently tapping three- four time with his fingers. "Don't worry, Aisha, it will be brief and painless. I've got a new one on CD which you might actually like."  
  
"At least waltzes are better than Arab pop," Pat teased the drummer.  
  
"I like Arab pop," Aisha snapped back stubbornly, though visibly more amused than angered.  
  
"Severus, what a pleasure!" Roary turned away towards the teacher who had been in the process of silently gliding by like a giant, black stingray. Roary grabbed one of Snape's wide robe sleeves and stopped him in his tracks. "How have you been, mate? Hair still black, I see."  
  
Reluctantly mixed emotions oozed out of Snape's face. Ginny remembered that Roary had helped Snape recover his hair colour on Christmas day. She assumed that not many people had ever greeted the unpopular teacher with words like "what a pleasure!" On the other hand, she knew that Snape had avoided Varlerta like the plague since spring; she even had a good idea why this might be so. The teacher seemed undecided whether to stride off, blatantly disregarding etiquette, or whether to stay and chat with the odd assembly of musicians around Roary. The singer of the Mushrooms made up Snape's mind for him by clasping his shoulder and saying in an irresistibly kind voice: "Severus, I want you to meet my band." He extended his other hand to Pat and Aisha as if by introducing them, he was offering a truly rare treat.  
  
Professor Snape surveyed the visitors from head to toe, slightly sneering at their casual clothes. Ginny wondered briefly if he had ever seen a Muggle before. Then Snape straightened his shoulders, a trick he often used to appear taller than he was, and briskly took hold of Pat's hand. "Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts," he said in a firm, clearly superior tone.  
  
Pat immediately assumed the same posture as the wizard facing him. "Patroklos Kohler, Muggle," he barked back in an identically pompous tone without batting an eye. In Snape's face, a muscle twitched. For the fraction of a second, it seemed like Snape was going to grin, but maybe Ginny had only been imagining things.  
  
"Aisha," the drummer mentioned unemotionally, both hands firmly arrested in her pockets. Snape answered her with a sneer.  
  
Aisha popped a very large, very pink gum bubble in front of his face, making Snape recoil. Ginny was impressed, as she had not noticed that Aisha was chewing gum. Suddenly, she found it a bit harder to believe that the drummer was a Muggle after all. "Are we going to practice any time soon?" the smaller woman asked Varlerta, disregarding Snape's sour face. If Roary had let go of Snape's sleeve, the Potions Master probably would have left at that point.  
  
Ginny felt a wish germinate in her heart. She acted on the spur of the moment. "Oh please, Professor Varlerta, can I come and watch while you practice?" she asked.  
  
Varlerta looked rather anxious for a second, but maybe that had to do with Snape's presence at the scene. "Er, I don't know, Ginny. We haven't seen each other in a while, you know, so I'd prefer to practice without an audience for now. You can see us tomorrow night," she replied, but her voice lacked the certain firmness of a definite refusal.  
  
"Oh, please, Professor Varlerta." Encouraged by past successes, Ginny tried her doe eyes on the teacher once more. "I wouldn't be in the way, you would hardly know I'm there. And you said I should watch Aisha play...."  
  
Varlerta looked rather unhappy.  
  
"So, how is teaching coming along, Var?" Pat tilted one eyebrow towards the enchanted ceiling in dry amusement. "Still suffering from role conflicts?"  
  
"Oh, shut up, smart-ass!" Varlerta bent her head as if to curtain her face with her hair, failing to conceal a deep blush. Pat laughed.  
  
"Or have you by now come to enjoy turning your fellow magic adolescents into law-abiding citizens?" Pat teased on.  
  
"I said shut up," Varlerta hissed and neatly placed a heel on Pat's toes. Pat grimaced and withdrew his foot.  
  
Snorting, Professor Snape succeeded in disengaging his sleeve from Roary's hand. Then the teacher rapidly fled the room. If Ginny wasn't mistaken, he might have been dangerously close to laughing.  
  
Varlerta looked after him, then shook her head as if to clear it. "Let's go and see Dumbledore," she reminded her fellow musicians, nodding to Ginny as a farewell.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Knowing that the Magic Mushrooms were practicing in Varlerta's building gave the place a rather magnetic quality in Ginny's eyes: She wanted to be present, to listen in, to follow Varlerta's advice and watch Aisha play. Of course, she knew she wasn't invited, wasn't even supposed to leave the castle: Due to a fine drizzle that had started around two o'clock, the grounds were deserted; not even Harry, Ron and Hermione were willing to go outside with her to form the required group of four. All they could talk or think about were their OWLs. Tomorrow they would get back their results. As everybody knew, students with poor results in their OWLs might not be permitted to continue school and to get their NEWTs. Of course, such things happened very rarely, but this did not prevent very many Fifth Years from suffering from serious nerves. Nobody suffered as much as Hermione, of course, in spite of many assurances from Ron that she was the least likely student to be banned from Hogwarts due to poor academic performance.  
  
Fred and George had their NEWTs to worry about, but somehow, they did not look worried at all. Instead, they were repeatedly seen drawing up tables of incomprehensible objects. Ginny suspected that now everybody's exams were over, they might be working on something for which they needed Ron's and Harry's help, but when she asked, the twins answered evasively. Suddenly Ginny found it incredibly hard to imagine that they would not be at Hogwarts anymore next year. They had always shooed her aside and treated her like a child, but she knew if she needed anything at all, Fred and George were the right brothers to ask. Except for a shoulder to cry on, that is. Except for accompanying her to Varlerta's building, maybe together with Lee Jordan, who seemed just as aloof as the twins regarding his NEWTs. Ginny shrugged to herself at the three almost-graduated wizards. The twins were her family. If she really needed them, they would be there for her, wouldn't they? Consequently, this had to mean that in this particular situation, she didn't really need them at all.  
  
When dusk fell, Ginny decided to break two school rules at once and to run out to Varlerta's building in the darkness as well as unaccompanied. She knew how to magically open the front door and could slip out noiselessly, she encouraged herself as she descended the stairs into the Entrance Hall. She had been outside the school when other students were sleeping quite a few times, and she knew that the likelihood of the Death Eaters' attacking the school exactly when she was alone in the dark grounds tended towards zero. Ginny broke into a trot, inhaling the balmy air of the summer night. The smell of freshly mown grass reminded her of childhood summers spent roaming the vicinity of the Burrow, at a time when each summer seemed endless and limitless. She skipped along the path around the ink-black lake, humming a tune to herself. Above her, stars twinkled; the young, green leaves on the ancient trees rustled. Being out here on her own felt like a privilege. She was starting to understand why the three elder brothers attending school with her always got into trouble for rule breaking. Did they feel the same sudden bout of bliss, this overwhelming sensation of freedom?  
  
Ginny touched her hand to the warm wood of Professor Varlerta's door and whispered the words 'Rock'n Roll High School.' She should change her password every now and then, Ginny thought giddily, wondering how many people could come in here whenever they pleased. When the door opened onto a slightly stuffy room of dim lights and entrancing sound, Ginny wondered for an instant if she was crazy to come out here. After all, Professor Varlerta was a teacher, entitled, no, obliged to disembowel her for rule breaking.  
  
The musicians were immersed in their playing; none of them had yet looked up at her. Should she go back to bed, hoping she had not been noticed? Suddenly Ginny realised that Sirius and Lupin were sitting on the sofa on the side, looking straight at her. So the Magic Mushrooms had admitted an audience to their practice session after all, but she had not been invited. Ginny felt a mild indignation and sneaked towards the sofa behind Varlerta's and Pat's backs. As she sat down right next to Sirius on the sofa's armrest, Aisha winked at her.  
  
Sirius wagged an admonishing finger, but moved to make room for her. Lupin, looking slightly drawn and weary, pointed at his watch; the band was playing rather loudly, so talking would not have been of much use. Knowing that she did not have much to say for herself, much less to gesture for herself, Ginny just smiled back at him, then let herself sink into the soft seat. The sofa was not designed to seat three, so Ginny could not help sitting very close to Sirius. She could feel the warmth of his leg through the fabric of her robe. The music was enveloping her; Ginny realised that the room was stiflingly hot. There was something in the atmosphere that made her want to just drift away with the sound. Sirius handed her bottle of chilled butterbeer. Ginny relaxed against the back-rest, watched and listened.  
  
She had heard some of the Mushrooms' tunes before, but the sound within the building seemed to have a palpable multi-dimensional quality. Varlerta's guitar, semi-distorted and seasoned with a slight flanger effect, somehow sounded different when merging with the sounds of her fellow musicians. Pat's fretless bass was amplified by a device that looked like a piece of refuge beamed into the present straight from the seventies, but emitted a sound that went straight for Ginny's stomach, booming and singing at the same time. Even seen from behind, the Muggle bass player looked in his element far more than in the morning. His bass lines wove in and out of Varlerta's wall of sound, sometimes going along with her in forceful unison, sometimes straying off into counterpoint. Quite a few times, Ginny was sure that Varlerta was accompanying Pat, not the other way around.  
  
Whenever Roary opened his mouth to sing, sometimes to moan or roar, there could be no question of who was accompanying whom anymore; not only visually, but also audibly, Roary was the band's front man. Deep and husky, his voice gave Ginny goose bumps on her arms. In her first year at Hogwarts, Candy and Natasha had insisted that Gilderoy Lockhard had a sexy voice, an opinion that had left Ginny bewildered: How could a voice be sexy? Listening to Roary, Ginny changed her mind. Voices could indeed be sexy.  
  
All this, however, she found not nearly as remarkable as Aisha. At first, all Ginny heard of the drummer were complicated rhythms, intricate patterns of bass drum and snare drum she herself couldn't yet play. When Aisha changed to a simpler pattern, not without a subtle little roll on the snare, Ginny's attention shifted to Aisha's right hand and left foot, the extremities used to play the high hat. Aisha's left foot, she noticed, was always in motion, opening and closing the high hat very, very slightly. Set off with slight variations in the right hand beat, the high hat seemed to talk rather than merely to keep time. Ginny was fascinated; she was starting to realise that contrary to what she had assumed up to now, Varlerta was not a good drummer after all. Aisha's playing gave Ginny a glimpse, or rather a reverberation of why she wanted to be a drummer, of what she was trying to achieve. Even though it was beginning to dawn on her that this might take an immense amount of practice, Ginny decided that playing the drums in that fashion was her deepest wish, her heart's desire.  
  
The song ended in a bass and guitar riff which stopped abruptly on the last quaver of the measure, accentuated with a china crash cymbal which Ginny had never seen before. For the fraction of a second, nobody spoke; the silence seemed just as loud as the music had been. Then Aisha said: "Excuse me, Var, but this drum set is a piece of sh--" she cast Ginny a sidelong glance, "a piece of junk." She slapped the floor tom with her palm in a slightly belittling way.  
  
"My drum set is just f...." Varlerta followed Aisha's glance. "Ginny, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you...?" Her eyes strayed off to Sirius and Lupin; she did not finish her sentence.  
  
"You told me to watch Aisha play," Ginny replied stubbornly but very softly.  
  
"You're not supposed to be outside after dark on your own - it's against the school rules," Varlerta replied without anger. Pat tilted up his eyebrow at her again. Then he put his bass guitar on a stand and asked Roary: "Coming outside for a fag and a snog?" The singer nodded and followed Pat outside, leaving the door open to let in some fresh air at Aisha's request.  
  
Varlerta sighed. "I'll walk you up to the castle. Stop embarrassing me in front of my friends by undermining my authority, or you will encounter a side of me neither you nor I want you to meet."  
  
After bidding Sirius, Lupin and Aisha goodnight, Ginny obediently followed Varlerta outside, still trying to make sense of the teacher's last sentence. While walking back to the castle, she said in a small voice: "That was really great, Professor Varlerta."  
  
Varlerta, however, was not mollified by compliments or formal address this time. "You think that nothing can happen to you because you've fought your first fight," she said in a voice that sounded surprisingly weary. "Maybe you feel safe because the castle hasn't been attacked since last fall, or because in spite of all our fears, we are all doing our best to enjoy ourselves nevertheless. I know how easy it is to feel invincible because you are young and have had a chance prove your talents to yourself. I was like you once, believing that I could get away with everything in life, that I was above the petty fears of all the rest. Well, I was not." The teacher stopped in her tracks and put a hand on Ginny's shoulder.  
  
"Do me a favour, Ginny, and try to develop your judgemental abilities in proportion with your other skills, if only so your parents won't rip off my head because you were silly enough to get yourself killed," she said in a very serious tone. Ginny suddenly felt very young and foolish.  
  
"I am sorry, Professor Varlerta," she said in a small voice.  
  
"Well, you'd better be," Varlerta said gently.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As always on the last day of the term, there was a little ceremony for the proud students who had achieved an official qualification at the end of the year - the awarding of the OWLs and NEWTs. Along with Ron and her parents, Ginny had watched Percy getting his top grade NEWT diploma two years ago, while the twins had gotten their identically mediocre OWLs. Today, her parents couldn't come: Her father was busy at the ministry, once more prevented from keeping up to schedule by current troubles. As far as Ginny knew, there was much disagreement in almost every department now; quite a few people were petitioning to have Fudge prematurely removed from his office, while others were ardently supporting the status quo. Her mother was busy with wedding preparations once more. While Ginny sat by herself in a back row, watching her three elder brothers receive pieces of parchment which would have a bearing on their later lives, she felt resentment grow in her heart. Would her mother have missed Percy's NEWT awarding for anything in her life? No, Molly would have found a way to come even if she was dead, Ginny thought bitterly.  
  
As much as they loved their mother, her favouritism did not agree with the four youngest Weasley children. Molly came from a hardworking pure-blooded kitchenwitch background; academic achievement and social status meant a lot to her. It was often hard for her to cope with a husband whose ambitions lay very far from her priorities. Molly had coped with poverty, even with the loss of social respect that had come with it, without hardly ever complaining; warm-hearted and cheerful, she had brought up all her children with much affection and commitment. Not for the first time, Ginny wondered what it had been like for her mother to give up the last of her children to the great Scottish boarding school that turned her babies into grown witches and wizards. The Burrow had to be so empty without them! - Yet while Molly was trying to be the perfect mother, it was hard for her to accept that her four younger children would not put much effort into being the perfect sons and daughter.  
  
Fred and George had caused little but trouble since the day they could walk, while Ron - well, Ron was Ron, Ginny contemplated as she saw the gangly fifth year accept his parchment diploma from Professor McGonagall's hands. Ron would probably never truly excel in anything: His academic achievements were no greater than the twins'; his position as a Quidditch keeper was shaky, and his skills at playing chess were at least partially due to a set of figures that had been in the family for generations. Even his miraculous new ability was something he had to share with Harry, Ginny thought as she saw Ron take his seat between his friends. Hermione was beaming with pride because she had secured herself the best OWLs of the year, if not of all history, and Harry had done considerably better than Ron. Ginny sighed, thinking that Bill, Percy and even sporty Charlie had spoiled it for the four of them. No wonder her mother did not attend today's ceremony, she thought: She did not have half as much to be proud of as she had had two years ago.  
  
Fred and George did not seem to be flustered either by their parents' absence or by their decidedly sub-average NEWTs. "All that mattered was that we passed something, because it will look better once somebody is writing up our biography," Fred said airily. "Who cares about grades? We are going to be self-employed anyway," George added. Their remarks made Ginny wonder whether the twins would really have a common biography, or whether the stories would drift apart at some point. When Fred went off to kiss Angelina in congratulation for the best Gryffindor NEWTs of the year, George looked the other way. Maybe their lives were not completely as identical as everybody believed, Ginny thought.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After Ginny had packed her trunk as well as she could with one night at Hogwarts still to come, she managed to persuade Harry, Ron and Hermione to walk her to Varlerta's building. Hermione had refused at first, pointing out that if Ginny left the group to watch the Mushrooms practice, they might get in trouble for being out in a group smaller than four. However, she did not make a fuss, maybe because everyone was in such a good mood: worries about the exams were over; all fifth years had passed and would remain at Hogwarts. ("Only because Crabbe and Goyle are at Durmstrang," Ron had pointed out.)  
  
Ginny wondered briefly if she should invite Ron, Harry and Hermione in - admittedly, she hadn't even been invited herself, but at least she had followed the rules this time - but realised that the three weren't really interested. They liked to keep to themselves at times and to have their little secrets, she knew. For example, they had kept Sirius a secret for more than a year, but Ginny hadn't needed them to be introduced to Sirius anyway.  
  
Entering the building resulted in a bit of a disappointment: In stead of a noisy rehearsal, all Ginny encountered was a silent, empty room. "Hello?" she asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Coming to watch a rehearsal without invitation was one thing; snooping through Varlerta's deserted house was another matter, somehow.  
  
"In here," a voice Ginny identified as Aisha's called out. Embarrassed, Ginny followed the voice into the small hallway that lay behind the music laboratory. The door to Varlerta's bathroom stood open; Aisha was shortening her hair with a plastic Muggle device.  
  
Ginny stared; somehow, Aisha's extra-short black stubbles fascinated her. She had not seen too many women with short hair yet; at Hogwarts; most girls and women and some of the men wore their hair long. In the mirror, Aisha's reflection grinned back at her; the drummer finished her task in a matter of seconds. Short black bits of hair fell down into the sink.  
  
"Don't even think about it," the mirror said to Ginny, startling Aisha. The Muggle woman froze for a second, then continued cleaning her little black machine.  
  
"I'll never get used to it," she said to Ginny. "I often wondered how you lot cope with it. I think if my mirror at home offered an opinion on my looks every time I stood in front of it, I would probably smash it to pieces." She cleaned her hair off herself, off the sink and the floor.  
  
"I heard you play yesterday," Ginny said apprehensively. Life was to short to dwell on trivialities like talking mirrors. "Could you - could you teach me something?"  
  
Aisha consulted her watch. "In half an hour?" she asked sceptically.  
  
Ginny shrugged and looked at her feet. "It's probably too much trouble," she said slowly, hoping Aisha would object to her assumption.  
  
"Okay, sit down at the set and show me what you've been practicing lately. Var said she taught you to play drums, which means you probably could do with a bit of help. - Not meaning that Professor Varlerta...." Aisha blushed.  
  
"She's a great teacher. She's not a drummer, though," Ginny hurried to say. Aisha nodded and followed Ginny out to the drum set.  
  
Ginny sat down and played a couple of rhythms. Aisha corrected her position and the way she held the sticks; she made a few suggestions regarding what to practice next. Ginny realised at once that most of her suggestions hit the nail on the head; she fervently wished she could have Aisha as a drum teacher at least once a week.  
  
Someone knocked at the door; Aisha rose from her stool and opened it to let in Professor Lupin. He gave her a warm smile. "I found you a drum raiser, and Professor Flitwick said he'd do a bit of a lightshow for your gig," he said.  
  
Aisha blushed almost purple; Ginny could see it even from behind the drum set. "That was very nice of you, Remus," the drummer replied unusually softly.  
  
Lupin had meanwhile spotted Ginny and waved her a greeting. "Where are the others? I thought I'd show you what we mean to do in terms of a stage, but...."  
  
"I'll come with you," Aisha said promptly. Then she turned to Ginny. "I won't be long. Keep practising." With these words, she followed Lupin out and closed the door behind her.  
  
Ginny practised. Then she practised more. Aisha did not come back. Ginny decided she needed to use the bathroom. While washing her hands, she spotted the black device Aisha had used for shortening her hair. Ginny dried her hands and took the little machine in her hand, wondering if she could operate it. A switch turned it on; little iron teeth started to move this or that way, accompanied by a humming noise. Ginny smiled to herself as she turned the thing off, imagining her father's simple pleasure at such devices.  
  
Ginny stared at herself in the mirror, at her thin, freckled face framed by dull read hair. She tugged at her meagre braid in displeasure.  
  
"You can't, young lady," the mirror said in a very bossy voice. "It's not done."  
  
Ginny stuck out her tongue. "Who asked you?" she snapped at the mirror. She certainly wasn't going to shave off most of her hair, but felt that the mirror was overstepping his competencies.  
  
"A young, pure-blooded wizard girl needs beautiful long hair to make a good match," the mirror said haughtily.  
  
"My hair is not beautiful," Ginny said defensively, playing with the device's button. She envied Varlerta and Parvati with their jet-black silky masses.  
  
The mirror refrained from commenting or contradicting. Before Ginny had even properly made up her mind, she had ran the humming device over her scalp - once, twice, a third time. Red locks fell to the floor.  
  
"Your mother will die of shock, dear," the mirror said with acid disapproval.  
  
Ginny replied with a defiant snort and finished her work. Only after she was done, she contemplated herself in the hostile mirror. The effect was devastating. Her face looked naked and alien; the freckles stood out like spots. Ginny felt absurdly like crying; she must have acted under temporary insanity, she decided. For a second she wondered if maybe Hermione or even Roary would know a way to magic her hair back on. Then she took a deep breath and started to clean up after herself just like Aisha had done before her. Only after she had finished, she risked a second look. Her head looked as if covered by shiny, copper-coloured plush. Ginny ran a hand over the hair tips. It felt nice, even if it did not look nice. Tonight, everybody would stare at her and make funny remarks; tomorrow her mother would throw a genuine Molly fit. Ginny shrugged; she did not even know why she had cut off her hair, but she would deal with the consequences whenever they occurred. She went back to the drum set to get some more practice.  
  
Aisha stared when she returned, but at first she did not comment. After a while she asked: "Do you want me to fix your hair at the back?"  
  
Ginny felt like telling her that there was no hair left to fix, but instead she followed Aisha into the bathroom, where she parted with another little bit of her hair. Then Aisha stepped back a bit and scrutinized Ginny. "It's okay now, I suppose," she said. A more enthusiastic comment would have made Ginny feel very relieved; as it was, she knew she would have to live with what she had done. In two or three years, her hair would be back to normal, she tried to comfort herself.  
  
Aisha started unscrewing her own cymbals from the stands. "Do you want me to help you carry the drum set?" Ginny asked politely, wishing she could get an Invisibility Cloak for the task, if not for the rest of her life.  
  
"Nope," Aisha said happily and slid the cymbals into a flat padded nylon bag. "You don't think I'm going to play on Varlerta's piece of junk, do you? I brought my own, or rather Roary brought it from the States in a Shrink Box. These magic things really come in handy, even though I can't use them myself, of course. I admit I still find them a bit spooky." She grinned apologetically and put the round cymbal bag over her shoulder. "Coming with me to the Great Hall? We're doing a short sound check before the feast begins."  
  
Ginny walked behind the drummer in a kind of daze, wondering what life without magical powers must be like - or without long hair, come to think of it. Well, Aisha had neither, she decided, but the Muggle woman seemed happy enough. "So how do you like Hogwarts? I suppose it can be - bewildering," she asked timidly.  
  
"Oh, it's not too bad, actually," Aisha replied. "There's a lot of strange things going on here, but over the years I've come to enjoy the world of magic. And of course, Hogwarts can't possibly be more bewildering than the Basilisk Bar." Her reply awakened Ginny's curiosity, but before the girl could ask for more, something else demanded her attention: A group of her Hufflepuff year mates in the Entrance Hall looked at Ginny as if she had grown at least one extra head. Pretending she did not notice their stares, Ginny kept her head up high. On the stairs, she met Hermione, Ron and Harry. Unfortunately, they were much more difficult to avoid or ignore than students she hardly knew.  
  
"Morgana's ass, Ginny, what happened to you?" Ron had recently integrated this particular expression into his standard vocabulary.  
  
"Goodness, Ginny, what did you do to yourself?" Hermione sounded just as dismayed as Ron. Harry ogled her wordlessly.  
  
"Why, don't you like my new nose?" Ginny said dryly, unwilling to comment or explain.  
  
"Mum is going to bite your head off, you know," Ron informed her.  
  
Ginny nodded. "Sorry, I'm busy at the moment. Talk to you three tonight." Happy for an excuse to get away, she hurried after Aisha.  
  
In the Great Hall, the tables had been moved closer to each other to make room for a small stage, twenty-foot wide and about two feet high. In the back of the stage, Aisha's shiny black drum set looked impressive; the rest of the stage seemed to be a dump for cables and metal stands of every kind. Varlerta and Roary were spreading Spellotape with a lavish hand, while Sirius and Lupin stood on the side, emitting smart remarks of every kind. Meanwhile Pat was showing Neville how to use a sound mixer. Wearing a headphone and a very confused look, Neville did not even see Ginny enter, something for which she was grateful.  
  
"Aifa, did you bring ve mike for ve bafe drum?" Varlerta's question was only marginally intelligible, as she held several spare strips of Spellotape between her bottom lip and upper teeth. "Oh, and Firiuf, could you pleave paf me vat ftand over vere?"  
  
Ginny stood on the side, watching Aisha and Sirius hand Roary and Varlerta the requested items. Any second now they would all look at her; their faces would fall, and they would utter remarks of regret for the mad, self- mutilating girl. Ginny braced herself for the worst she expected, namely Sirius' look of displeasure, but failed to brace herself for the thing that actually happened: While Sirius gave Varlerta the stand, he kissed the teacher, playfully avoiding the Spellotape on her lips. Both adults laughed and simpered at each other in a way that made it clear this was certainly not the first gestures of affection they were exchanging.  
  
Ginny felt as if someone had poured red-hot iron into her stomach. She felt like running away, but it seemed that her feet were glued to the ground, that her neck had frozen in a position which made it impossible to turn away. While she watched Sirius disengaging the Spellotape from Varlerta's lips so he could kiss her a bit better, she had the distinct sensation of her heart crumbling in her chest.  
  
"Ginny, do you think you could maybe help me with this sound mixer?"  
  
Very slowly, Ginny turned around to Neville who beckoned her towards him. She looked down, hoping he would not see the tears welling up in her eyes. Without her commanding them to, her feet carried her up to the sound mixer.  
  
"Could you tell me which cable goes into which input? They are all different colours, and I forgot to write down which one I put where," Neville said as if nothing had happened. Ginny noticed that he had found a task for her which forced her eyes away from the stage. He knows, she thought.  
  
"Input one is the red cable, input two the pink one, input three...." She could hear her voice falter. If she could only instantly Disapparate to a dark and lonely cave, she thought. Whatever excitement about the concert had survived her hair accident had now evaporated.  
  
"Input three?" Neville asked her gently.  
  
"Blue," Ginny whispered. She felt tears running down her face, and there was no hair left that might have concealed them.  
  
"Blue," Neville repeated very softly and noted the colours on a sheet of paper. Then he took a clean white handkerchief out of the pocket in his robes. Ginny noticed that it had the Longbottom coat of arms embroidered on it. "I like your haircut," Neville said awkwardly as Ginny buried her wet face in the crisp, almost chafing material. "It shows off the back of your head."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The feast went by in a kind of blur. Around her, others talked about this and that, but Ginny could never quite catch their conversations. She put several items in her mouth, which were probably edible, as she was able to chew and even to swallow them. The twins announced that Molly would bite Ginny's head off, which wasn't news to her. Neville sat next to her, answering questions about the band now and then. Rhonda Celps said she was impressed that Ginny and Neville knew how to work the Muggle PA system. Ginny tried to figure out how Rhonda had gotten such ideas in her head; she had only looked over Pat's and Neville's shoulder without comprehending what she saw. Neville replied very modestly that they had learned a few things about Muggle technology in 'audio magic class', as he termed it.  
  
Again and again, Ginny's eyes strayed to the large, black dog that sat between Lupin's and Varlerta's chairs, wolfing down all the delicacies they put on his plate. She told herself over, and over again that she had seen it coming, that Sirius was too old for her, and that her overwhelming feelings of loss were completely inappropriate. Unable to force herself to be cheerful, at least she had managed an acceptable level of outward composure. The pain will pass, she repeated to herself over, and over again.  
  
Finally, the feast was over; the plates wiped themselves clean, and the tables and chairs arranged themselves along the walls. Ginny followed Neville to the sound mixer. Students stood around and talked, expecting the concert. Finally, the lights dimmed themselves until only the stars above could be seen. Dumbledore climbed onto the stage, surrounded by a few shooting stars conjured up by Professor Flitwick.  
  
"Another year lies behind us, a troubled year, but not as troubled as we feared," he said kindly. "Contrary to many predictions, not the least from the Minister of Magic, this school still stands here as it has for more than a thousand years. It is still a treasury for the most precious thing the magic community of Britain owns - a treasury for our future, for our children.  
  
"Another year we have all done our best to teach and learn. We have proved that trouble cannot tear apart our unity. Loyalty towards our friends and truthfulness to ourselves are still our best protection against the darkness that tries to permeate our community.  
  
"Today, we are here to celebrate. Without celebrating our good times, without food, music and pleasure, there would be little sense in fighting the darkness. However, we are not only celebrating the end of the school year; we are also celebrating the beginning of a new era of friendship between magic and non-magic people. It is my firm belief that through the troubles ahead of us, we should never forget that we share this world with the Muggles, and that our worries are essentially shared worries. As a symbol for this friendship, tonight a band consisting of two Muggles, a witch and a wizard will play for us. I hope we will have a chance to dance and to be merry. Students and teachers of Hogwarts, please enjoy - the Magic Mushrooms!"  
  
There's something more to the visit of this band than meets the eye, Ginny thought. She wished she could read between the lines and figure out what Dumbledore had not said, but now she had to turn her attention to the sound mixer. Unlike this afternoon, the buttons and potentiometers started to look familiar again. While the band, all dressed in black denims and t- shirts, entered the stage through a rain of colourful sparks, she put her headphones on her head. Neville gave her an encouraging look. Ginny was grateful he would be mixing alongside her, not because she did not believe she was up to it, but so she could not be tempted to ruin the sound of the band in a jealous fit.  
  
The music had not lost its magic for her. While Ginny slightly adjusted the volume of the bass drum, she felt the sound wash through her heart like cleansing water. There was no reason to hate the witch on the stage because of a broken heart, and now that the first shock was dulled a bit, she did not feel hatred any more. Aisha's straight beats and Varlerta's energetic rock riffs had put a few students on the dance floor already. Unlike many other songs of the Mushrooms, this one was a simple, catchy rock number with an unobtrusive touch of metal. Fred shoved George into a group of moderately dancing Hufflepuffs; Angelina shoved Fred into George and made a hesitating attempt at head-banging. Ginny felt her right foot tap to the beat. Pain mingled with pleasure - in an odd, ambivalent way, she might actually enjoy herself tonight, she realised.  
  
Obviously, the band wanted the students to dance and enjoy themselves during these first few songs rather than to listen to their more intricate compositions: Another rock number followed and was received graciously. Flitwick conjured up colourful flashes that lit up the faces of the dancing students in synchronicity with the beat. Varlerta and Pat were moving while playing, their bodies and flowing manes synchronized with their music. Aisha was mostly hidden by a wall of shiny brass cymbals. Roary did not even need to move to look great on stage; his droning voice sent shivers up Ginny's spine. Candice and Natasha stood on the side and looked upon the singer with a rapt expression, perhaps dreaming up scenes that clashed curiously with the things Ginny knew about Roary.  
  
She looked around, spitefully wondering how many more girls would make fools of themselves this evening - it took one to know one, she decided - but, of course, her glance was caught by a wizard and a dog, standing on the side. Lupin was moving with the music almost imperceptibly. It would have been misleading to say that he danced, as the slight motion could not be pinned down on any single part of his body, but somewhere between his head and his toes, the rhythm affected him. Sirius in his dog shape was thrashing his tail to the beat. Damn him, Ginny thought. Then her gaze strayed to another wizard who was standing on the side, immobile as if Transfixed, but whose gaze never left the stage: Professor Snape. Ginny thought about a few things that Hermione had said in her presence, about the way Snape had so obviously worried about Varlerta when the witch was in the power of the Death Eaters. Of course he had avoided her all this time, but this could be interpreted in more than one way. Suddenly she wondered if Snape knew about Varlerta and Sirius, and if not, how he would take the news. Could it be that her heart was not the only one that was broken tonight?  
  
Fred and George had meanwhile declared the area right in front of the stage as their mosh pit, much to Angelina's pleasure and Rhonda's displeasure. Groups of students were bumping into each other enthusiastically, while on the side, other students made sure to keep their distance from the more violent dancers. Lee Jordan even attempted to stage dive, am ambitious undertaking, considering that the stage was only two feet high. Obviously in her best-OWLs-results party mood, Hermione levitated Lee Jordan over the heads of the increasing crowd of dancing students, zoomed him around and turned him a few times, much to his obvious pleasure. When Lee had both feet back on the ground, visibly dizzy but in his best spirits, Seamus Finnegan went up to Hermione, maybe asking her to do the same with him. Neville adjusted the treble potentiometer for Aisha's ride cymbal, a smile on his face. Then he glanced sideways at Ginny. She almost smiled back at him. Through cheers of the audience, Roary announced the next song, 'Kick the Habit.'  
  
With its slap bass lines and rap-like vocals, the third song had a bit of a 'new metal'-feeling. Aisha's uptime beat, enhanced by a noisy open high hat, kept the dance floor boiling; a couple of students were now hovering in the air, trying to work out how to dance without ground contact. Maybe because the lyrics were mostly spoken rather than sung, they caught Ginny's attention. At first she was straining to hear Roary well over her headphones just to make sure the different quality of his voice carried well over the distorted guitar riff, but then she hung on to every word:  
  
"It is high time to see/ what's best for me/ cause shit hit the fan a long time ago // Inwardly I'm bleeding/ this road is leading/ to a dead end street for all I know // No, this can't be it/ I decided I quit/ cause my dream has become my enemy // So I'm telling you/ what it is that I'll do/ I give up and finally leave you be  
  
I kick the habit - kick the habit of dreaming of you.  
  
I spent so many days / longing to see your face/ what a waste of time, this has got to end // So I pull myself free/ of this captivity/ it's not easy, but I understand // When dreams fall apart/ all these pains in the heart/ are withdrawal symptoms, but that's okay // Although I'm still keen/ on this dream-nicotine/ I am strong enough now to pull away //  
  
I kick the habit - kick the habit of dreaming of you."  
  
Ginny had to concede that there was a slight credibility gap, because the wizard singing these heartbreaking lyrics was so conspicuously gorgeous. She wondered if Roary had ever had to dream of anybody in vain, if he had ever suffered like she did now. However, somehow his lyrics expressed something that seemed to fit her situation like a dragon-hide glove: It hurt to see that Sirius had someone else, and accepting that he would never be hers would not be easy in any way, but eventually she would. While another couple of songs drifted by her almost unnoticed, she did her best not to let her eye stray to the black dog at the other side of the room anymore. Instead, she concentrated on the sparkling, colourful lights above the stage which at one point formed hearts and roses exploding into lively, silvery tear drops. Obviously, somewhere deep down in Flitwick's mind slumbered a sick sense of humour.  
  
Roary announced that on special request of the Hogwarts staff, the band would play three waltzes now, all of them cover versions. This time cheers came from the back of the room; Professor McGonagall forcefully steered Dumbledore onto the dance floor, while Professor Sprout gestured wildly for Vector to join her. Ginny noticed that while there was a shortage of male dance partners among the teachers, nobody approached Snape. She saw the pale face of the teacher shine out among the gloom of his black robes and black hair, at times coloured by Flitwick's lightshow, and shuddered. She would not have dared to ask him to dance either, for anything in the world. Lupin however danced with Astra Sinistra to the moderately distorted, not altogether slow version of My Favourite Things. Many of the wilder students had deserted the dance floor to get themselves some cool pumpkin juice; only Angelina and Fred, sweaty but beaming with happiness, were dancing something that could only be termed 'bumper car waltz.'  
  
Neville tuned down the lowest frequencies of the bass, taking out the boom, just as Ginny reached for the same button. He smiled at her and said very quickly: "I think we might leave this for a while now. Would you dance the next waltz with me?"  
  
Ginny looked down at her feet. Dance? It was the last thing she felt like doing tonight. Misunderstanding her glance, Neville said: "I know, but there is something I can do about that." Bending down, he undid his shoelaces and took off his shoes. Ginny stared at his socks, unwilling to look him in the face. The socks had grey and red stripes; one big toe showed through a hole.  
  
"Alright then," she said due to her lack of a decent excuse, and when the band went on to play a decidedly rockier version of Temple of the Dog's song All Night Thing, she found herself on the dance floor, doing her best to keep Neville from bumping her into any teachers. He might not be very accomplished at steering, but was certainly in flow with the music; all in all, waltzing with him went tolerably well. When Neville suppressed a grimace, she realised that now it was her time to watch her feet: Obviously she had stepped on his unprotected toes. If he ever stepped on hers, unshod as he was, she never felt it.  
  
After the song glorifying one-night-stands was over (somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered if Professor McGonagall had listened to the lyrics, and if so, how she had liked them), Ginny would have liked to return to the sound mixer, but Neville just held on to her hand and remained in waltzing position. Remembering that there was only one waltz to go, Ginny decided not to make a fuss. Over her shoulder she could see that Ron and Hermione were getting ready to dance as well, while Harry stood in front of Cho, looking very apprehensive. Cho smiled the ghost of a smile, but nodded. Harry took her hands.  
  
"Last chance to waltz tonight," Roary said over the microphone with his deep, husky voice. "This next song is fairly new - in fact, the CD will come out in September. I rather like it, actually: Sad Songs and Waltzes, originally played by Cake."  
  
He is showing off, Ginny thought with a touch of criticism, but could not decide whether Roary was showing off his connections as a musician who received pre-release promos, or his successes as a CD-snatching time hopper, a popular sport among audacious witches and wizards as far as she knew. As Varlerta played the first, very simple chords of this slightly nostalgic song of the future, she felt Neville's knee bump the time against hers very gently. Just when Roary started to sing the plain, almost naïve tune, Neville induced another round of slow and aimless turning. Above them, a cloud of glimmering music notes twinkled and turned - a slightly tacky, but still charming effect, Ginny decided - very much like Flitwick, indeed.  
  
"I'm writing a song all about you. // A true song as real as my tears. // But you've no need to fear it // Cause no one will hear it. // Sad songs and waltzes aren't selling this year."  
  
Just as the band had finished the first chorus, all lights went out so suddenly as if someone had switched them off: Flitwick's sparkling light effects died just like the few lamps that were still burning above the counter that held pumpkin juice for everyone; even the stars on the ceiling died as if they had never been there. Ginny wondered if maybe she had suddenly gone blind. An icy wind swept through the Great Hall. The Mushrooms stopped playing; through many screams and shouts, Ginny could identify a cry of pain that might very well have been Varlerta's. There were a number of heavy thumps around her, as if some heavy objects or maybe even some people had hit the ground. She wondered whether she was in pain as well, but found out that all sensation had been drained from her body. She did not feel unwell at all, only very drowsy, as if a comfortably warming blanket of snow had fallen right onto her brain. Lying down for a little nap was the obvious thing to do.  
  
Hands shook her vigorously, even violently. "You can't sleep now, Ginny," a voice said with an urgency that sounded unfamiliar. She realised the person shaking her was Neville, that he was doing his best to keep her from sinking to the floor.  
  
"Wake up, Ginny, don't faint," he whispered. "We've got to get our instruments and help Varlerta." 


	26. Harry

26 - Harry  
  
It was as if the blood in his veins itself had frozen up. When he tried to raise his hand to his scar in a vain attempt to counter the searing pain through his touch, he found that his limbs were no longer at his command. Cho's left hand and right shoulder slipped through his weakened fingers; he tried to hold on to her, but could not prevent her gliding to the floor. Around him in the lightless Hall, students were screaming and moaning. Someone or something shoved him against an unknown object. Robbed not only of his sight but also of his sense of touch, he could not make out who or what had prevented him to hit the floor.  
  
Here and there, the light of a wand flared up, only to die an instant later. Calling for help would not do - everybody in the Hall appeared to be screaming in panic. If only his scar would stop hurting, Harry thought. He tried to call out to Cho, but found his vocal chords as disobedient as his limbs.  
  
Icy Fingers - now Harry understood what had given the curse its trivial name. It was much, much worse than the last time he had experienced it, a hundred times worse than the laboratory simulation of the curse. Glacial digits crawled up his spine, slipped under his skin as if it was a garment, dug through his muscles and sinews until they poked into the very marrow of his bones. He had the distinct sensation of a layer of frost gathering on the inside of his mouth, making its way down into his throat. He was far too cold to fight or even to shiver.  
  
Something was chafing his numbed fingers, but he could not feel what it was; neither could he see, smell or taste it. Even his ears seemed to close up at the piercing screams and the noise around him. Utterly robbed of any sort of useful perception, he found nothingness beckon to him at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. Behind it, there would be ... nothing.  
  
Then there was pain, pain in his left arm. He welcomed it as something that he could feel, something other than the cold that permeated his whole being. If only he could determine what kind of pain he felt, he'd have re- gained some sort of perception, however meagre. That way, he might gain access to the world again, he decided with a brain that felt as if icicles hung from it. He tried to tug at his aching arm, commanding joints and muscles to do their job. His shoulder felt like an ancient, never-oiled machine, but after what seemed an eternity, he managed to enhance the pain in his arm. Something was holding it, evidently; if he wasn't mistaken, his arm was held by sharp teeth.  
  
Then there was a nose in his face, a weight on his chest and paws scratching at his hands. It had to be Sirius, Harry realised. Sirius was sitting on his hands, trying to warm them. A tiny, canine whine escaped from the deafening level of noise. Harry managed to move his thumb over Sirius' front paw. It felt like an immense success to him.  
  
A thin, blue flash of light ran over the ceiling in the fraction of a second, the first visual signal in what seemed to be an eternity. Harry started to wonder why nobody had re-lit the magical lamps to install some kind of order. Could it be that nobody was able to lift the darkness from the Great Hall? What about Flitwick, what about Dumbledore - couldn't they give the school a light, at any rate?  
  
Through the screams and moans that filled the Hall, Harry could hear an alien kind of noise. Somebody was playing a drum, he realised. He could not make out whether the rhythm was played on a part of the Muggle drum set or on Ginny's Shaman drum, but he did notice that it sounded irregular, almost tortured. Again and again, it ceased altogether. Quivering notes from Varlerta's guitar and Neville's flute flared up, only to fade before they could form a tune or build up a protective wall of sound. They've got to save us, Harry thought. What will we do if they can't protect us, now that we need it most?  
  
When the music died altogether, a shudder seemed to run through Sirius. Then the large, furry dog barked loudly. Harry could feel him struggle with something, but could not make out what it was. Where was Dumbledore now, he wondered -could the headmaster still save them, or had he already fallen prey to the vicious curse? Where was Professor McGonagall - where was Snape? Was there no one who could save Hogwarts now?  
  
Suddenly Harry heard a voice right next to him call out with great urgency:  
  
"Sirius, you have to Transform and help me. I can't make it on my own, but maybe you can. If we can't, I think we're all going to die in here." The dog yowled in reply.  
  
It must be Professor Lupin, Harry realised when their icy hands met on Sirius' paw. He tried to say his name, but all that left his frozen lips was a strange noise.  
  
"Harry!" Lupin exclaimed and shook his shoulders. "We've got to counter this curse. You have to help me. I think - I think Sirius can't Transform because the curse is blocking him."  
  
Harry moaned. His scar hurt indescribably, and his body and mind were numb with the cold. He knew he should try to sit up and do something, but somehow it seemed so much easier just to stay where he was, to give up and to die. Sirius growled softly, while Lupin mumbled something in a comforting voice. Then the wizard moved; Harry guessed that he had struggled up into a kneeling position.  
  
"Taovéta," Lupin uttered feebly. It sounded like a resigned lament rather than a powerfully exclaimed counter curse. Harry tried to sit up. Raising his aching head was an effort greater than anything Harry could remember to have accomplished in his whole life. Half-sitting, half-lying, his head resting against Sirius' back, Harry tried to make sense of the chilled, ink- black world around him. Lupin was bracing himself against his shoulders, readying himself for another attempt to Counter the curse.  
  
Suddenly a blinding flash lit up the Great Hall for a moment, reflecting on the walls which were covered with a shiny layer of ice. It split into about a dozen branches which shot into every direction. Just as the blazing light died, screams of pain were heard all over the Great Hall. Now the ice on the ceiling and the walls was cracking noisily, showering everybody with cold, painfully sharp fragments of icicles. Suddenly Harry was wide awake: One of the people who had screamed was Ron, he was absolutely sure of it.  
  
"Ron," Harry whispered. Then he thought of Cho, who had been dancing with him a minute ago - a lifetime ago. He thought of all his friends, of Hagrid, of Hermione, who had to be somewhere in this dark world of chaos. "I'll try to help you," he whispered to Lupin, wondering how he could be helpful in any way, weakened as he was.  
  
Lupin pulled him up to his knees; Sirius nudged him from behind with his head. Harry's legs felt as if they consisted of melting cheese. He bit his bottom lip and tried to ignore the pain. Staring into the impenetrable night yielded no new information. His hands groped for Cho in the darkness. He found her face and her soft hair somewhere on his left. The girl did not react to his touch; she did not move at all. Harry's fingers were too numb to tell him whether she was breathing, even whether she was alive or already frozen stiff in this icy hell.  
  
He felt his throat close up; he would choke if he didn't do anything about it. Something was happening to his robe; Lupin, he realised, was trying to get his wand out. Then the wizard closed Harry's insensitive fingers over the smooth, long stick that felt alien and lifeless.  
  
"Try, Harry. Please, try to Counter it. Remember how we practised it. Remember, Taovéta. Taovéta, Harry!" the wizard urged him. Sirius yowled as if in agreement. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar chord struggled through a speaker, trembled and disappeared as if it had never been played.  
  
"Taovéta," Harry murmured weakly. His lips stuck together in the cold; his vocal chords seemed freeze-dried. How could he do any better than a grown wizard like Lupin, he wondered?  
  
Another magic flash hit the Hall. In the briefest moment of blazing light, Harry could see its branches feather out and aim at students and teachers. Then the light exploded in his eyes; one branch was approaching him at the speed of light, shooting into his face and -  
  
He hit the floor with a thumb that knocked the breath out of him. His side hurt; no, everything hurt. Sirius was making noises that sounded like he was being tortured. Harry struggled to his knees, his fingers searching the darkness for any clue to what had happened. Lupin, Harry realised. Lupin knocked me over; in turn, he was hit by the flash. Sirius was licking Lupin's face in a frantic effort to get a reaction from his friend.  
  
Harry thought of the curse, of the way it hit people in the place where they were most vulnerable - in the place where they were open for caring about each other. All of a sudden he felt a terrible anger overwhelm him. This was Lord Voldemort's doing. Voldemort had killed his parents, had killed so many people - now he was going to get Hogwarts, and everybody in this Hall, and Harry wasn't doing anything about it. He found he was still clutching his wand, ready to do whatever he could to prevent it.  
  
Somehow Harry managed to get up on his feet; surprisingly, his aching legs consented to carry him. Icy air filled his lungs and cleared his head. All he had learned about the Icy Fingers curse was present in his mind now. He could feel the structure of the curse in every molecule of icy air, in each of the numerous threads building the fine-spun web of human relations. The counter curse was made to destroy this structure, and to protect the web. Harry pictured it in his mind once more and took one last deep breath. Suddenly it all seemed to come into focus, as if someone had adjusted a lens in his head. When he raised his wand at the ceiling above, he felt absolutely sure of himself.  
  
"Taovéta!"  
  
For a moment, the Hall fell into complete silence. Then, one by one, the magical lamps lit up, emitting a dim, but slowly brightening light. On the walls, the ice started to thaw; drips of cold water were falling from the ceiling like a slight spring rain. Harry wiped a thin layer of ice off his glasses and looked around in a mixture of wonder and terror. All around him on the slippery floor lay the bodies of students and teachers; some were covered with translucent sheets of ice, while others were showing first signs of motion. Harry felt a bit of warmth return to his face; suddenly he could feel his fingers again. The curse had been Countered, had been turned off as if by a switch.  
  
Harry looked down at Lupin and Sirius. Lupin was as pale as death, but alive, he saw to his immense relief. A thin string of blood was running from his smiling mouth. Sirius lay next to him; his large, black, furry head touched Lupin's cheek, but his dark eyes glanced up at Harry with a look that might well be pride. Harry touched his fur very briefly. Glad as he was that both Sirius and Lupin were alive, there were so many other people he cared about in this Hall. He had to find out whether they were well.  
  
Cho was lying next to Harry, so it was easiest to check on her first. She was unconscious, but breathing. Harry touched her cold, chafed face, then withdrew his hand, suddenly feeling guilty. "Hang in there, Cho. You'll be fine," he whispered to her, hoping that he was right.  
  
About twenty feet across the room, a dark, dishevelled figure struggled to her feet, wiped a mop of black hair out of her face and said in a shaky voice:  
  
"Students and teachers - the danger appears averted. We will all do our utmost to protect you. Would all of you that are able to sit do so, please, so we can find out who is worst off."  
  
It took Harry a while to realise that this grimy figure was Professor McGonagall. Never had he imagined seeing her in such a state.  
  
Very slowly, some students and teachers raised their heads and sat up. Many seemed to be hurt. Harry was straining to see any of his friends. Nearby, one of the twins and Angelina sat over the immobile body of another red- haired figure. Harry crawled closer, noticing that the pain in his scar started to recede.  
  
"Say something, Fred, come on, say something." The red-haired young wizard was shaking his pale twin. When Harry saw tears streaming down George's face, cold fear gripped his heart. Angelina saw him approach; she was crying, too.  
  
"He's breathing, but something is wrong with him," she whispered, shaking icy shards out of her black hair. "That flash-thing hit him." She put a hand on George's arm, who seemed to be beyond noticing.  
  
"Ron," Harry croaked. Angelina shrugged, wiping over her eyes with the back of her hand. "Hermione," she whispered and pointed before returning her gaze to the motionless figure on the ground.  
  
Harry's eyes followed Angelina's finger. Hermione was crouching only about fifteen feet away from him, but in the crowded, chaotic Hall, this seemed to be an immense distance. Far behind her he saw Hagrid leaning against the wall; the half-giant appeared to be holding several of the smaller students in his broad lap. Although dirty and bleeding, Hagrid did not look much hurt, which was at least something.  
  
To get to Hermione, Harry had to make his way through a solid mass of students lying on the floor, many of them hurt. One of the Patil twins - he wasn't sure which one - lay flat on her back and stared upwards at the ceiling, uncomprehending. Harry put a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Parvati? Padma?" he asked. The girl did not reply. Her black eyes were still directed at the stars which glimmered above once more as if nothing had happened in the world underneath.  
  
"Are you okay? Do you need help?" No reaction. Harry looked around apprehensively. She needed help, needed Madam Pomfrey straight away, that much was certain. Where was the Matron when they needed her most? What if she was hurt herself? Who would help them then?  
  
"Help will come soon, Parvati," he said, wondering if any of his words were true. He felt so tired. If he could only rest for a minute, he thought longingly. Instead, he gave the girl an awkward pat before he got up to look for Ron and Hermione, only to find himself facing little Dennis Creevey.  
  
"Oh, Harry, you are a hero, you performed a miracle and saved us all," the Gryffindor third year piped enthusiastically.  
  
"Thank you," Harry said stupidly, hoping to get rid of the boy as soon as possible. "Have you seen Ron anywhere?"  
  
A look of desperation returned to Dennis' face. "Harry, you have to help my brother Colin. I can't wake him up, but I'm sure you can make him alright with your magic." The apprehension in his eyes made room for an air of absolute trust.  
  
Harry felt as if the ground below him was swaying ever so slightly. What did the boy expect of him? He would have liked to send him away, because he knew he could do nothing for Colin, but somehow he couldn't tell little Dennis so. The boy pulled at his sleeve, urging him through the crowd, regardless of the many motionless or moaning students who were still lying on the floor. Harry cast a desperate look back towards where he had last seen a glimpse of Hermione.  
  
The Gryffindor Prefect was sitting among hurt students, her eyes scanning the room. When she spotted Harry, her face lit up for a moment, only to assume a very, very anxious and pleading look. "Ron," she mouthed, pointing at the figure on the floor. Horror-struck, Harry tore his sleeve from Dennis' grip.  
  
"I've got to look after Ron," he said.  
  
"But my brother," Dennis said stubbornly. "You have to help him, he is ill or something. Please, only come and look at him!" He took hold of Harry's arm again.  
  
Suddenly a loud noise startled everybody in the room: Professor McGonagall had hit one of the Muggle drummer's large cymbals with a blast of magic. Behind her stood Sprout and Vector, both visibly worse for the wear. In the back of his mind, Harry wondered where Dumbledore was. He looked around for more teachers. Sinistra was apparently still out cold. Snape, he saw, was struggling to his feet near the stage, at the same time picking the shards of a broken potion phial out of his bleeding hand. Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Professor McGonagall's voice boomed across the Hall, commanding and controlled. "Students, sit where you are, please. We need to install some semblance of order so we can help you. We have called a team of mediwizards and Aurors who will be here soon. I understand that you are all hurt and terribly upset, but we must ask you to stay where you are."  
  
Helplessly, Harry looked back and forth between Dennis and Hermione. He saw that both were crying now, and knew that he could help neither of them. Why did so many students look at him as if he had done something extraordinary, as if he was special? True, he had managed to Counter the curse, but he had no idea how he had done it. And of course, he had never been able to help a sick person in any way, so what did Dennis expect of him? Suddenly fatigue overwhelmed him.  
  
He sat down where he stood and hid his face in his hands, trying to keep the Hall from spinning around him in never-ending spirals. Nausea rose in his throat; from behind, a blackness fell over him like a heavy, smothering blanket.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry awoke in a familiar place. His first thought was that they might as well give him a private bed in the hospital wing, as he needed it so frequently. For a while, he was well pleased with the world: A warm patch of sunshine warmed his pillow, and outside, a few birds were singing. He was not in pain or discomforted in any way. So why was he lying here in the hospital wing, a nagging voice in his head asked, forcing him to focus on his memories. The feast. Icy Fingers. The Countering of the curse. So many people hurt - or worse?  
  
Harry fumbled for his glasses until he felt them in the familiar spot on the bedside table, put them on and took a look around. He found himself alone in a curtained cubicle that opened towards a window where the sun was already high in the sky. Afternoon sun, he realised. He should have left on the Hogwarts Express hours ago, unless - unless there was no Hogwarts Express anymore. Fear flooded Harry's mind. He sat up rapidly and swung two pyjama-clad legs over the edge of the white hospital bed, determined to find out what had happened to all his friends. Weakness and nausea hit him like a wet sandbag. Resisting the urge to sink back into bed, Harry buried his head in his hand and tried to compose himself.  
  
After a while, he felt better. Alright, he was obviously slightly inconvenienced, so he had to move carefully. Apprehensively, he put his bare feet on the cool, tiled floor and lowered his weight onto them. Bracing himself against the bed, he was able to stand. The room danced around him another little bit, then came to a halt. Harry looked around for his clothes, but found none. Alright then - the pyjama would have to do.  
  
The hospital room was deserted, but next to his cubicle he saw another one with the curtains almost drawn. Harry peeked through the gap and found Lupin propped up in bed, holding a torn, leather-bound tome. As knocking on the curtains would not have been any good, Harry asked apprehensively:  
  
"Professor Lupin?"  
  
Lupin looked up from his book and smiled at him. Harry realised that his former teacher had never looked worse: He must have lost a few pounds, and his eyes looked like they had sunk deeper into his waxen face. "It's good to see you up, Harry," the wizard said quietly.  
  
Harry approached his bed, careful not to betray how weak he felt. Gratefully he let himself fall onto the chair that was placed next to Lupin's bed. He took a deep breath. This was no time to be polite, even if Lupin did not look any healthier than Harry felt himself.  
  
"Professor Lupin, please tell me what happened. Is everybody - alright?"  
  
Lupin sighed and put his book on the bedside table. "No, they are not, Harry," he said gently, "but at least everybody came out of this alive. Thanks to you, I should say."  
  
Harry felt relieved, but not very relieved. "What happened?" he asked.  
  
Lupin rubbed the deepened lines around his eyes. Harry noticed that under his threadbare pyjama, the wizard wore a bandage around his right shoulder. "Most are fine, apart from minor frost bites and similar ailments. They left on the train after a thorough check by Madam Pomfrey. I suppose many of them are down with a bad cold now, and I heard that a Hufflepuff third year had to have three toes amputated, because not even magic could save them anymore. The others -" Lupin swallowed. Then he continued:  
  
"A few people have been hit by some kind of ice missile. They fainted and had to be taken to get surgery at St. Mungo's to have the ice particles removed. Now they are all better, it seems, though the mediwizards and -witches are still not sure whether the ice missiles will have any side effects that so far have not been discovered. Luckily, no one was hit in the head or in any vital organ. That would have been death, I suppose."  
  
"Ron." Harry knew it with a sudden certainty. "Fred. Cho Chang. Colin Creevey. Parvati Patil."  
  
"Padma, actually," Lupin corrected. "Rhonda Celps, Terry Boot, Millicent Bulstrode, a few younger students whose name I've forgotten because I've never taught them myself. Someone called Baddock, a boy named Cauldwell, a girl called Gwenwyfar-something. Flitwick was hit, and so did was Hagrid, even though he never even seemed bothered by it. Hagrid was quite amazing, actually - they tried to persuade him to go into hospital, but he wouldn't hear of it, so the splinter had to be removed here. Right after the surgery, Hagrid got up and left for his hut, just like that."  
  
A ghost of a smile appeared on Lupin's face, but receded as quickly as it came. "Dumbledore was hit, too, and rather badly. If that was accidental, then I'll eat my robe. Poppy said he will live, and he has briefly regained consciousness yesterday, so there is hope that he will get well, but.." Lupin bit his lips.  
  
Harry fought down his worries. There was no way that Dumbledore could die; that simply wasn't possible.  
  
"How is Hermione?" he asked anxiously, remembering how worried she had looked when he had last seen her.  
  
"Hermione wasn't hurt, so she went home to her parents," Sirius said. "She was extremely upset about you and Ron and had to be persuaded to leave. She left you a note on your bedside table, and she said she would owl you soon."  
  
Harry knew he should feel relieved that at least someone was well, but worries were still overwhelming him. Ron was at St. Mungo's; Fred was there, too; so was Cho. He pictured their pale faces between white sheets, the bandages they would have after surgery. When he thought of 'unknown side effects' that might still bother his friends in the future, fear gripped his heart. He tried to put it aside, because there were so many things to worry about right now, so many things that appeared to have happened while he had been out cold. Just to receive confirmation, he asked:  
  
"I was unconscious for more than a few hours, wasn't I?"  
  
"About five days," Lupin said with a lopsided grin that looked ghastly on his thinned face. "Mind you, I wasn't around for all of it, either."  
  
Suddenly Harry remembered something. "You saved my life," he said. Then he looked at Lupin's bandaged shoulder. "And you got hit for it."  
  
Lupin grimaced. "You saved us all, I repeat. Glad I could be of service."  
  
"Why aren't you in St. Mungo's to get treatment then?" Harry's eyes strayed back to the bandage. "Did you get the missile removed?"  
  
Lupin's pale face blushed slightly. "It's not like Poppy couldn't fix such a bagatelle injury," he said without looking at Harry.  
  
"They wouldn't admit him, the cowards." Harry turned abruptly: The voice behind him belonged to Sirius. His godfather looked far more healthy than Lupin, although slightly bleary-eyed. He sat down on the edge of Lupin's bed and said:  
  
"Remus transformed the day before yesterday. Poppy had to do surgery on his wolf shape, which apparently caused some minor difficulties. He'll have one helluva scar." Sirius lightly clapped his friend on his unwounded shoulder. Then he put his other hand on Harry's arm and fixed him with his stare. "Are you alright, Harry?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "I think I'm fine, just a bit wobbly, though I don't even know why. What happened to me?"  
  
Sirius grinned, and even Lupin chuckled.  
  
"Dear godson, take my advice to your heart: Never be a hero again. It's not good for you," Sirius said with a hint of irony. Lupin shook his head in agreement. Then the two wizards exchanged glances. Lupin shrugged, then nodded.  
  
Sirius got up and fetched a blanket which he wordlessly draped around Harry's shoulders. Harry accepted it gratefully; he hadn't even noticed that he had been shivering in his pyjamas. Sirius walked over to the window and leant against the windowsill; Harry had to half-turn to look at him.  
  
"It is not altogether surprising that of all people it was you who managed to Counter the curse," he said. "You seem to have a special ability to draw strength from the surroundings in emergency situations, and to cast spells that are far beyond your normal strength if you really need them. It's supposed to be some kind of a family trait - James was good at it, that's why he wanted us to work at countering Icy Fingers. You are better than him. Your Countering was nothing short of amazing. None of us could have done it."  
  
"I think you did something similar when you conjured up your Patronus on the night we learned about Sirius' innocence," Lupin said. "When you needed the strength, you found it readily. I talked to Varlerta about it, because it's the exact thing she's trying to teach - Strengthening at the highest level. She said she believed that while you'll always be rubbish at Coaxing, you have a natural talent for drawing strength when you need it."  
  
Harry drew his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "You said my father could do the same?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Not quite as spectacularly as you did at the feast, but in a similar way. He did some... amazing things when we were young, and he never even knew himself how he did it. It's a rare talent. Dumbledore believes that besides your mo- well, that it's one of the reasons why you could survive Voldemort's curse when you were a baby. Maybe it's one of the reasons why Voldemort was after you and your parents in the first place, too - maybe it's even the reason for Trelawney's prophecy that you will be Voldemort's downfall."  
  
Harry thought he had misheard. "Excuse me?" he asked apprehensively.  
  
"Sirius, you oaf," Lupin chided. "Dumbledore warned us not to tell him, remember? Besides, Harry is ill, and you are worrying him with all these things."  
  
"I'm sorry," Sirius said in a subdued voice, shrugging apologetically. Then he broke out: "Dumbledore with his damn carefulness. Look where it's gotten him, or us, for that matter. I don't believe that keeping anything secret among ourselves is a good idea anymore."  
  
"What did Trelawney say?" Harry said in a quiet voice.  
  
"Just this: that a Potter would be the downfall of the Dark Lord," Lupin replied. "Your parents went into hiding with you straight away after they heard. You know the rest - you are the last Potter left alive."  
  
"What happened to the rest of the Potters?" Harry asked. Somewhere in the back of his mind he saw a large family with black, dishevelled hair and knobbly knees, as seen in the Mirror of Erised.  
  
Sirius sighed and looked at Lupin; Lupin shrugged in reply, as if to refuse responsibility.  
  
"There weren't so many to begin with. Your father had a brother and a cousin who were killed by Voldemort before they could hide. The Potters were neither a large nor an old wizard family, though they had a bit of money among themselves. Rather they were a progressive bunch with a reputation for marrying Muggle-borns, for being reckless Aurors or dedicated scientists. No one ever knew why they should be the ones to bring down Voldemort." Sirius looked out of the window for a moment. Outside, the golden sun of early evening was blazing. He blinked as if the light stung into his eyes.  
  
"We never knew why you survived Voldemort's attack, because in spite of your mother's protection, it was really unheard of. We never knew what talent of yours would be the reason for Trelawney's prediction. Now I think we might have gotten a glimpse of it." His voice faltered almost imperceptibly. "Your parents would have been very proud of you."  
  
Harry drew his feet up on his chair and hugged his legs under the blanket. Right now, he felt very small and completely devoid of any special talents. He did not want to talk about his parents for now, nor of any kind of prophecy, so he asked:  
  
"So is there any news about the ones that were hit? Do you how they are - Ron, Fred and -?" His voice faltered when he tried to ask about Cho.  
  
"Ron went into hospital and had his ice fragments removed like all the other students and teachers who were hit," Sirius explained. "Like most of the other students, he's much better; he sent Pigwidgeon with a letter for you this morning. I plead guilty of opening your mail this once, because I was so anxious to hear how he was - I hope you'll forgive me, Harry."  
  
Harry nodded impatiently. "Sure, just don't let it turn into a habit," he replied off-handedly.  
  
Sirius kneaded his chin. "Fred is not so well, and the whole family is rather worried. It seems he is recovering, but not as quickly as the other students. Right now, everybody is kept at St. Mungo's so they can look out for potential side effects. They are worrying about the missiles inducing a magical disease, but couldn't spot any yet. Hopefully, they never will. - Ginny and George weren't hit, at least, though Ginny caught pneumonia on the frozen stage. The whole Weasley family is camping out at the hospital, it seems, except for Arthur, who practically lives at the ministry right now. The whole place is in disorder - the whole British magic community is, as a matter of fact."  
  
"What will happen with me then?" Harry said. "Are you going to send me to -"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "We can't, I'm afraid - it's too dangerous. All these years you were protected by old Mrs. Figg, who also was your Secret- Keeper. Well, as you heard, she was killed by Voldemort last summer, and so was her daughter. It was agreed that Quibster would take her place during the holidays, but Quibster betrayed us, and now he is gone. Flitwick is ill, and so is Lupin, besides the fact that a Muggle town is not the best place for a werewolf to live. There wasn't really anyone else who could have done the job. I'm not sure what Dumbledore would have us do in this situation, but we can't very well ask him now, so I persuaded Professor McGonagall to write to your aunt and uncle and tell them you aren't coming for now. I hope that's alright with you - as far as I understood you, there's little love lost between you."  
  
Harry nodded mutely. "How are the other teachers? What will happen to the school if Dumbledore - is ill?"  
  
Sirius shrugged. "Professor McGonagall will be headmistress for now, until Dumbledore is well again. For now, his illness is a secret, because we can't let Voldemort know how weakened we are. Hogwarts is not a safe place anymore, and I have no idea what will happen next year. However, we will do our best. Some of the teachers - Vector, Sprout and Sinistra for example - are working on an enhanced protection of the castle and the grounds." Sirius grimaced; Harry inferred that without mentioning him, he was also talking of Snape.  
  
"Professor Varlerta and her band have left for the States as she planned to do," Sirius continued, his eyes on the floor. "I believe that there's more to their departure than just music, though she insisted they are going into a recording studio. She and Roary are - up to something, I believe. I wish they would have trusted me enough to tell me. She said she'll owl me, and her apprentices, and -" He looked quite unhappy for a moment. Then he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.  
  
"I thought maybe you would like to stay here with me for now, as there does not seem to be much choice. Perhaps you could visit the Burrow later during the holidays. Remember, you are invited to a prestigious Weasley wedding that is scheduled for August, at least if everybody is well again by then. For now - do you think it would be okay with you to stay at Hogwarts and help me and Lupin with the counter curse? There's still plenty of work to be done until we've got Taovéta into a shape that is usable for the rest of us as well. Who knows, with your mysterious talents, maybe you are just the person we need. - I know it's not what anybody would choose to do during the holidays, of course, but right now I can't do any better, I'm afraid. I wish I could offer you a proper home in these difficult times."  
  
Sirius had said all this rather quickly and quietly; now he looked at the floor. Lupin moved as if to say something, but then thought better of it.  
  
"I couldn't wish for anything else, really," Harry said, smiling at his godfather. "You and my friends are the only family I have, and Hogwarts is my only home, but I am glad of both."  
  
The End  
  
******************************************************************  
  
******************************************************************  
  
The last note has been played. As it fades, the lights on the stage are dimmed; above you, the neon tubes start to flicker. That's it.  
  
As you are leaving the hall, you see that right next to the door, someone has pasted a note scribbled on a piece of cardboard. It says 'If you've read this far, reward your author with a final review.' 


End file.
